


Boy with a Basket of Fruit

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brief mention of Bipolar Disorder, EVEN IS ROMANTIC AS HECK, Even is a NERD, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Isak is a lowkey emotional masochist, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Rome is the best city on earth, Slow Burn, Study abroad au, although Isak is gone from the start, and he can't take a hint, and some mild sexual tension, but a cool™ nerd, but he just wants what’s best for Isak, idk why but I kind of made Jonas a dick, like a slooooowwww burnnnn, lots of flirting, some brief descriptions of food, some mild sexual content, there's like two seconds of angst I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Isak is a third-year architecture student studying abroad in Rome, Italy when he meets Even—a triple major and a triple threat. He’s handsome. He’s smart. And he’s charming as hell with the right amount of weird mixed in. Isak’s intrigued, but he doesn’t want to like him—he actually came to Rome to quite literally run away from his relationship problems back home. But the heart wants what the heart wants, even if Isak attempts to ignore it.He tries to listen to the universe. It’s throwing all the signs to juststay awayright in his face, but for some reason, it’s also throwing him right into Even’s arms at every turn. So he tortures himself. He doesn’t make a move. They can be just friends, after all.Until they can’t.





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :) I post a little aesthetic for each chapter on my blog, mainly because I reference a lot of real places, buildings, landmarks, bars, etc. in this fic and I think it would be helpful to understand what Rome truly looks like if you’ve never been. Links will always be in the beginning notes. ↓
> 
>  
> 
> [Chapter 1.](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/164351444756/boy-with-a-basket-of-fruit)
> 
>  
> 
> Also I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/4CdqjUGEc9kiu0PW4wVh7U) for this fic if anyone is interested!

Alright.

It is _hot._ And they _said_ it was going to be hot—but holy shit it is hot. Isak makes a mental note to go clothes shopping as soon as possible because everything he packed is definitely too warm. He’s already sweating through the thinnest t-shirt he owns.

“I think I need to shave my head,” Jonas whines, pushing his curls off his forehead as beads of sweat roll down. And if that isn’t any indication of how hot it is, because Jonas would never _dare_ shave his head, then I don’t know what to tell you.

“Me too,” Magnus agrees, hauling his suitcase from under his seat and pointing out the window of the train. “I think this is our stop.”

“Boys need to get on my level,” Mahdi laughs, running his hand over his buzzed head—gaze following Magnus’s gesture. “Are you sure? _Trastevere?"_ He squints out the window to read the sign. “I thought it was Termini?”

“Fuck it, I don’t know,” Magnus shrugs, dragging his bag towards the sliding doors. “I just remember it started with a T. That’s what the lady at the airport said.”

Isak rolls his eyes at the boys, the only one semi-put-together. “It’s this one,” he assures with a sigh, following Magnus’s lead and heading towards the train doors with the boys scrambling on his tail. I mean, someone has to know what they’re doing, right? So sue him—he had even brushed up on his Italian. (It’s still really bad, though.)

And he really does want to be here, despite the front he might put out to the boys. After months and months of nagging, Isak joined (A.k.a. was peer pressured into) the international architecture program through his university at the last-minute—five months of studying and sketching the eternal city—Rome. Like clockwork, every day for the past year, the boys pulled up their schedules and raved about the food and wouldn’t shut up about how _fun_ this was going to be. And sure, whatever, but Isak wasn’t going. No way in hell. At least, that’s what he _thought_ until he desperately needed a distraction. Six months ago, you could barely drag Isak out of Oslo. Now… well. Things have changed. 

Really, though, he’s kicking himself for being so adamant on _not_ going because as soon as they step out of the train station—wow.

He almost forgets the heat everything here is so beautiful. Tall, twindly trees that bush out at the tops line the streets where tiny cafés and gelato shops sandwich themselves between colorful, garden top buildings. Glancing down a side street leads you to cobble-stone roads where laundry hangs between the narrow passageways and window boxes overflow with drooping flowers. Dozens of restaurants with cute patios where locals sit to eat and drink bookmark every corner.

Yeah, he’s really kicking himself. He’s been moping around for _months_ after Julian left him—and he would never tell the boys, but that’s the reason he is here right now. Quite literally running away from all of his problems. 

It was one of those breakups that hit Isak without warning. Everything was going so well and then it just… wasn’t. He met Julian his first year out of Nissan and they had been dating ever since. But about three months ago—bam. The classic _it’s not you, it’s me_ speech. And then suddenly, like everything meant nothing to Julian, Isak was no longer a part of his life. At some point, it seemed Julian had even blocked his number. It was a hollowing wake up call when Isak drunkenly dialed him after a night out with the boys to take his mind off things and he made it back home. Alone. Just to hear _we’re sorry, but the number you have tried to reach—_ he hung up before it finished. Even worse than wondering what he did wrong was the loneliness. It hurt more than seeing Julian with another guy—rounding the corner outside of Kaffebrenneriet hand in hand like how _they_ used to be. And now they were nothing.

His spirits are lifted, though. He’s feeling good. Better. The initial sting is wearing off and his friends have been nothing but supportive. To think he almost didn’t come because of _some boy._

That thought makes Isak smirk a little. _Yeah. Just some fucking boy._

“My GPS says the apartment is a few blocks up the road,” Jonas motions with his phone, wheeling his suitcase behind him as he leads the pack. It's student housing—provided by their university where the other twelve kids in the program are staying. They’re spread out between four apartments, each with two bedrooms—Isak has agreed to share a room with Jonas, and luckily, Magnus and Mahdi are the other pair in their flat.

The heat returns when Isak shakes himself back to reality—his shirt probably transparent now from all the sweat. He would consider shaving his head, too, but let's be real. He can never part with the curls. What he really can't wait for, even more so than food, is a shower.

For some annoying reason, their landlord insists on taking their ID photos as soon as they step through the threshold where a security guard prints them one by one in a small office behind his guard desk.

“You just missed orientation,” she huffs. “Were you the ones that sent me the email?”

Isak nods—again, the only one on top of things. He had sent it as soon as they landed and checked the time, using the airport’s wifi, and letting her know they would be late. Their flight was delayed somewhat, and they had spent another good hour or so just sitting on the runway waiting to take off. 

He decides to forego an international phone plan for this trip, opting instead to save some money and turn his phone on airplane mode the whole semester—connecting to wifi at their apartment and in their classrooms and at whatever bar or restaurant he can. It's not ideal, but Jonas has data for emergencies and who is Isak going to call, really? _Julian?_ That thought makes him cringe. No more drunk dials for him, at least.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, looking at the ID he's being handed and grimacing. Let’s just say he looks sweaty. And less than thrilled.

“You’ll need these to get in the building after 21:00,” she taps the ID and nods, handing each boy a key. “B12.” She points to the staircase. “6th floor.”

And there is no elevator.

So that's another struggle. 

On the third floor, they must be making a lot of noise, each boy with a stuffed suitcase and a backpack slung over their shoulder because a girl with red-brown hair pops her head out of the doorway to her own apartment. She watches them for a minute before asking, in English, “Do you need help?” Her eyes linger for a minute on Jonas, a small smirk on her lips before she turns her head over her shoulder to call back into the flat, “Vilde! Noora! Sana!” She turns back to the boys. “It’s really no problem.”

They barely have time to shoot each other glances before three more girls float out the doorway and then they are all shaking hands and making introductions, the small blonde one, Vilde, offering to help carry Isak’s suitcase with him. 

“It’ll be much easier,” she insists.

“Where are you guys from?” The tall blonde, Noora, asks. And it's a weird time to ask—they're huffing up the last flight of stairs and everyone is so out of breath they can hardly speak.

“Oslo,” Jonas grunts, struggling with his key in the lock before it clicks and the door swings open to reveal a small entryway. It leads straight back to the kitchen and is framed by two sets of french doors on either side that presumably leads to the bedrooms.

The red-brown haired girl, Eva, clutches her heart and sings, “Oslo! My parents are from Bergen. I was born in Norway but moved to the states when I was a kid.”

“Is that where you’re from, then?” Mahdi asks, wheeling his suitcase through their doors and stepping back out to not be rude, although Isak doesn’t blame him because right now he _really_ wants to take a shower. “The states?”

“Mhm,” Sana agrees. “We are art history students. We’ve been here about…” she trails, squinting her eyes and looking up as if to remember. “Six months already. Six months to go.”

Magnus lets out a low whistle. “We’re, uh, only here until December.”

Eva smirks at him and then turns her eyes to Jonas as they start to drift back down the stairs. “Well, if you need anything, we have all the inside info. You can find us on the third floor.”

 

———

 

Class is no joke. Two times a week Isak has a five-hour studio that goes all the way until the evening, followed every day with Italian and then his architecture history lecture on the off days. His studio is located on the second floor of a repurposed building, and it’s small—smaller than what he’s used to back home, but it’s still roomy enough. Long drafting tables sit comfortably in the middle of the high-ceiling space, and laser cutters and blueprint drawers filled with paper and modeling material line the inside walls. Outside his studio are a few extra rooms they have their other classes in, and down the hall is a kitchen and a patio. 

His favorite class, though—part two of architecture history, if you will, is every Tuesday and Thursday. The whole class wakes up at the crack of dawn—trying to beat the heat—and meets their professor at the location on their schedule. She leads them through neighborhoods and inside cathedrals and around monuments so they can see, in person, just what they are here to study.

It takes Isak by surprise when last week, as they round the corner of a particularly small cobblestone alleyway, they come face to face with the Pantheon. He really doesn't know what he's expecting. Neon signs that say _Pantheon! This way!_? But this is even better. It’s just… plopped in the middle of everyday life. A few cafés and shops surrounding the square with pink and yellow and light blue apartment buildings stacked on top. People work here. People shop here. People eat here. People live their lives here—like a towering piece of history isn't demanding their attention.

It's in that moment Isak forgets Julian altogether. Forgets everything, really. He isn't even paying attention to the professor—too busy cramping his neck and looking up at the oculus. Jonas nudges his shoulder when the class starts to move, and thank god he does because Isak wouldn’t have even noticed them leaving.

Since they can't get to everything in class, though, once a week they are also assigned a location to visit by themselves (unfortunately also coupled with a two-page paper). And while the whole class will eventually visit all the same locations, everyone is assigned a different one every week to avoid copying.

Okay, so Isak can’t be on top of _everything, all the time_ —so he pushes this particular paper to the last minute. Well, that is a little bit of a lie. To be honest, he's been spending every night out with the boys before their classes start to weigh down too hard—watching street performers in Piazza Navona, strolling through Tiber Island, drinking cheap beers on the walk home…all while coming back to their flat to make dinner at midnight—playlist blaring while Isak cuts vegetables and Jonas cooks and Mahdi DJ’s and Magnus sits there like a useless lump. At least he provides the laughs. And it's all paired with more wine than Isak thinks he would ever drink in his life. 

Let’s be real. It's cheaper than water.

But really—this paper. It’s Friday and he’s saluting to the boys as they step out. He begrudgingly sets his alarm for 5:00 a.m. His paper is on St. Peter’s Basilica—one of the biggest tourist spots there is, so he doesn’t want it to be busy. The earlier he goes, the cooler it’s going to be.

Isak used to have problems falling asleep—and he fears they might return just from the heat. Apparently, Italy has never heard of air conditioning. The windows are open, the fan is on, and he is close to naked. But still, the heat persists, even when the sun is down. His only escape is a cold shower. Thankfully, after that, he is out like a light.

That night he doesn’t dream of Julian. He doesn’t dream of Oslo. He dreams of wine and friends and food and history.

 

Unfortunately, though, it is one of those nights where Isak feels like he merely blinks before his alarm is screaming at him. His thumb hovers over the _snooze_ button on his phone, and he debates whether he should or shouldn’t. The sun isn’t quite up yet, but the longer he waits, the higher it will crawl and the hotter it will be.

“Turn it off,” Jonas whines, covering his ears with his pillow and turning over in the twin bed across the room from his.

Oh yeah. This is a thing. Isak didn’t even hear him slip in last night—he might as well start getting used to no personal space. To be fair, he hardly had any with Eskild as a roommate back home.

So Isak showers and brushes his teeth and gets dressed—all while half asleep—before he quietly slips out the door and heads for the staircase where he literally runs straight into Eva—which sends her flying. Luckily, he catches her before she tumbles down the steps.

“Unnskyld,” he lets slip before he corrects himself in English. “Oh, I mean, sorry.”

“Jeg snakker Norsk,” she smirks back at him, eyes wide like she is expecting him to remember.

It’s nice to have someone to speak his native tongue with besides the boys. He definitely feels more comfortable. 

“Where are you headed?” She asks with a cocked eyebrow. “It’s pretty early.”

“Where are _you_ headed?” He snips, mocking her. “It’s pretty early.”

The boys have been down to their apartment and vice versa a few times now these past two weeks or so, usually to drink wine from the bottle and play drinking games on weeknights while the girls cook them a much better dinner than they could make themselves. If only they provide the groceries, of course.

Isak’s a little worried Eva might be keen on him—hell, keen on all of them. It’s obvious she wants to hook up, and since Jonas is oblivious, her glances are flitting his way these days. Being gay hasn’t come up in conversation, though, so Isak makes a mental note to tell Jonas to get his head out of his ass.

She laughs at his bad humor and offers up a smile. “You know, the girls and I are going out Friday night. You should come.”

Isak considers her and purses his lips in one of those thinking frowns with a few head nods.

“And you should bring your friends,” she adds.

“I’ll bring it up,” he agrees. “But I have to go. Super secret early morning stuff to do, you know.” And with a small salute, he jogs the rest of the way down the stairs.

He grabs a cappuccino freddo and a ciambella from his favorite bar—Bar del Cappuccino—across the Tiber river before he starts walking along it over to the Vatican, the sun mocking him with every step as the concrete heats up and reflects around him. And the walk isn’t long, only about twenty minutes or so, but it feels like forever because he can see the basilica in the distance the entire time, its massive dome a landmark in the skyline.

When he arrives, he spends a fair amount of time on what he's supposed to be doing—studying the highly controversial façade and contemplating why historians might find it unappealing: _it’s too broad for its height. The details are too cramped. It shields the view of the dome…_ But he thinks it would be a shame to get this far only to see what he came here for, so after all the notes he thinks he can take, he steps inside the basilica. 

There used to be a time when being surrounded by so much religious pressure made Isak feel trapped. Stepping into a church with his mom made him seem _wrong._

Now, though, Isak scrutinizes the contents and the art. It’s all history to him. Facts— _that_ he can wrap is head around. He’s a spectator. An observer. A student. A researcher. He doesn’t need God’s _permission_ to be here, no matter how _wrong_ or _right_ he is in anyone’s eyes. It helps that St. Peter’s is a stop on most tourists’ lists when they come to Rome, religious or not, and since tourist season is in full swing there are plenty of them here.

It’s not crowded shoulder to shoulder, though, thank god, although there are more large groups here than he expected for six in the morning. And it looks much bigger from the inside if that is somehow possible. Crepuscular rays shine down from the dome at the end of the nave, and there is more art dripping from the walls than Isak can imagine. In particular, when he looks to his right, he’s face to face with Michelangelo’s _Pieta_. And he knows it’s here, but wow, he doesn’t know it’s, like, _right here._

“Did you know a lot of the sculpture had to be restored?”

The voice is low, coming from a stranger who seems to appear out of thin air on his left. Isak does a double-take like an idiot because after one glance into the most beautiful blue eyes he has ever seen, he knows it isn’t enough. And Isak is tall, but this boy beside him now is taller. Like 99% legs. His swept up blonde hair is a simultaneous mixture of _I just got out of bed_ and _I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to do this_. He’s holding a green sketchbook in one arm close to his chest and has a pencil tucked behind one ear. He’s wearing a fucking _jean jacket_ like a goddamn model while Isak is sweating through a t-shirt he literally cut the sleeves off of. All with a precious smirk, like his patience is immeasurable as he waits for Isak to respond. 

He realizes he’s starring, though, so Isak turns back to the sculpture.

Those blue eyes, though. He can feel them burning into him like he is the art.

And only now Isak realizes he is speaking Norwegian. So with a quick switch of his eyebrows and a playful smirk, Isak laughs at him, suddenly way less intimidated. “Do you just go up to strangers in foreign countries and start speaking Norwegian?”

“You have a Norwegian flag patch on your backpack,” the stranger points out as he playfully flicks Isak’s zipper.

Oh. Oh yeah. Isak makes a noise that sounds vaguely interested, turning back to the sculpture to hide his blush. “But, uh, no—” he continues, sniffling and wiping his nose as a nervous reflex, “I didn’t know it had to be restored.”

The stranger nods. “In 1972, a geologist walked right up to it and smashed it with a hammer, shouting, ‘I am Jesus Christ! I have risen from the dead!’” He makes enthusiastic hand gestures as he laughs the last part out.

 _Alright, Michelangelo,_ Isak thinks. Seriously, who the hell is this guy? He’s cute and he’s weird and Isak likes to think he’s too cool for someone like that, but his smile betrays him.

They share a giggle, eyes lingering a little longer than their smiles. “So, you’re from Norway?” Isak only asks because it’s the first thing he can think of and he doesn’t want to look away from those blue, blue eyes. And more importantly, he doesn’t want them to look away from him.

“That’s where I was born and grew up,” Michelangelo sighs like a sour memory just popped up unexpectedly. “But I’ve been going to school in the U.S. for the past five years.”

That should be an easy conversation starter, right? Isak could ask, _oh, what do you study?_ or _oh, that's neat. Where at in the states?_ Or hell, even _where at in Norway?_ But it’s like every word he knows dissolves each time he opens his mouth. He is the smoothest motherfucker any other time, I swear, but right now his brain is short-circuiting. Fuck it, he opens it anyway, ready to speak and to risk sounding like an idiot if only this Michelangelo wannabe will keep looking at him.

But he’s interrupted by a buzzing phone Michelangelo pulls out of his pocket, and all too fast, he’s giving Isak a polite smile and a wave as he answers, “halla?” and moves to walk away—glancing over his shoulder once to meet Isak’s eye for probably the last time.

He disappears into a crowd of people, and Isak thinks he takes a little piece of him with him.

 

———

 

Isak calls them “grocery store crushes.” You know—like you see someone at the grocery store or at a restaurant or wherever—you might not even smile at each other or make eye contact, but you spend a good fifteen minutes wondering what it might be like to roll around in bed… wake up next to each other every morning… whatever. The point is, after fifteen minutes, you probably never think about them again.

But that’s the problem. It’s been almost a week, and Isak is still thinking about the stranger from St. Peter’s. He doesn’t even know his goddamn _name_ yet he can’t get him out of his head.

He’s reading the same sentence over and over again on his laptop while they wait in their studio between classes, but he can’t concentrate. This paper is late, but it’s hard to write about the outside of St. Peter’s when all he can really remember is the fleeting moment he had inside.

Jonas nudges his shoulder. “Are we still going out with the third-floor girls tonight?” He asks expectantly.

It wakes Isak from his stupor a little. “Ja, Chakra…” he nods. “It’s a bar in Trastevere.” He pulls up a new tab on his laptop and types it in the search bar. “It’s actually right across the river from here, and about four blocks from our apartment.”

“What time?” Jonas prods.

Isak rolls his eyes up at him and moves over to his Facebook tab. “You know, Jonas, _you_ can always ask them, too. We’re all friendly. I’m not your guy’s chick mediator.” He types Eva’s name in the search bar to send her a message. Luckily, she’s online.

> **Isak:** We still on for tonight?
> 
> **Eva:** You betcha! Meeting in the lobby and then heading to Chakra around 20:00.

Isak sends her a thumbs up emoji and then turns to Jonas with lowered, condescending eyelids and pursed lips. “20:00—that’s in—” he checks the time in the upper right corner of his laptop, “two hours. We’re meeting in the lobby.”

“Ugh, I’m going to have wet hair,” Jonas complains.

“Why are you going to have wet hair,” Isak deadpans.

“Because that only gives us an hour after Italian is over!” He throws his hands as they pack up and sling their backpacks over their shoulders—slowly walking out the door and across the hall to their last class. “And then at least twenty minutes to walk home. I have to shower—my hair won’t be dry in time.”

They have a few minutes after they sit at their usual table, so Isak ignores Jonas’s ramblings and takes his laptop back out and continues to stare desperately at his paper, hoping it will magically write itself. It doesn’t, though. The cursor just blinks at him stupidly.

Mahdi and Magnus plop down beside them, and Jonas starts talking to them about tonight—when they’re leaving, what he should wear, where they should go after Chakra, if he should make a move on Eva tonight—

“Yes,” Isak blurts, eyes still on his screen like he's actually doing something even though he's not.

Jonas shoots him a smile. “You think she’s into me?”

Well, maybe. But most importantly, it is imperative that she _isn’t_ into Isak. “Probably,” he shoots back.

Luckily, before any more prodding can happen, class is starting. Isak likes Italian—it is a lot more _here’s how to order food and how to say hello at certain times of day and how to get around Rome and how to cook Italian meals_ compared to every other language or culture class he’s taken. It’s nice—especially on Fridays like today when they group up and head to the kitchen to cook.

They need to be in groups of three, so the boys have a mini _rock, paper, scissors,_ tournament and Jonas flips them off when he loses to Isak. Lucky for him, though, his group is tackling Tiramisu while Isak, Mahdi, and Magnus get stuck with a fennel and orange salad.

“Dude, I think I kind of like Vilde,” Magnus admits as he’s peeling oranges. “But, like, I don’t _want_ to like her, you know? Because what if I really _really_ start to like her and then BOOM!” He throws his hands into the air, sending some peel with him and warranting a few dirty looks from the group over. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I go back to Norway. She goes back to the states.”

Isak looks over at Jonas—carefully dunking the savoiardi into the espresso—and his face falls a little. 

“Yeah,” Mahdi agrees. “When you’re away from home for awhile, you have to like, turn your emotions off. If you want to get it in, it’s got to be like. No feelings.” He slashes the air shortly with his hand.

Magnus flicks another orange peel and bends down towards the recipe the professor gave them to decide if he needs to peel another. He doesn’t. “Yeah,” he deadpans, reaching for Isak’s knife, in his own fucking hands mind you, to start chopping the oranges.

“Excuse you,” Isak snarls, pulling the knife away. “I’m not done.”

“Dude, I think you’re done,” Mahdi points to his cutting board—littered with finely chopped fennel. “I don’t think you can cut that any smaller.”

Isak sighs with a noise that sounds like frustration. His mind clearly is a million miles away. “Sorry,” he takes a deep breath and hands the knife to Magnus.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mahdi asks.

And no, not really. But it’s fine. “It’s just my architecture history paper,” Isak half lies. I mean, technically it _is_ his paper, but there’s a whole other side to it that doesn’t need to be mentioned right now. “It was due today and I didn’t turn it in because I didn’t finish it, and I still haven’t gone to my next assignment to take notes, either. I’m, like, a whole week behind.”

Magnus and Mahdi shoot each other a look. “It’s fine, man,” Mahdi comforts. “Just forget about it. Party ’till your balls fall off tonight, and then buckle down on Saturday and Sunday and get that shit done.”

“Party ‘till my balls fall off?” Isak repeats with an actual smile—the one with sharp teeth that stick out under his cupid’s bow.

Magnus’s face lights up like he’s just realizing something. “You know what we need to do,” he exclaims, flapping his hands rapidly like he doesn’t know where to release his excitement. “We need to get Isak laid!” He’s talking so loud heads are starting to turn, including Jonas’s, who gives him a dirty look and makes a _shut up_ motion towards him. “You’re still all grumpy about Julian, it’s perfect!” Luckily, his excitement is contained down to a passionate whisper now. “No feelings.”

Isak doesn’t _hate_ the idea. He hasn’t been with anybody since Julian, but he’d be a liar if he said he thought about him in the shower with his hand wrapped around himself. He’s past those sad, sad days.

He kind of hates how everything now is just a distraction from the bigger picture. “We’ll see,” Isak agrees tentatively but with a small smirk nonetheless. He motions for Magnus’s orange chunks as he realizes everyone has begun to plate and dumps them into a bowl with his pathetic fennel.

Dinner is good. It’s not as good as when the girls make them dinner, but it’s still good. Sadly, the salad is pretty much untouched. 

Jonas is scarfing his food. “Eat faster,” he demands of the boys, particularly Isak who still has half his meal left. “I want to get back to the apartment and shower.”

“I should stay here and finish my paper,” Isak admits. “If I go home, I won’t do it—and if I manage to turn it in today I’ll only be docked one grade.”

“Fine,” Jonas rolls his eyes. “We’ll meet you at Charka at 20:00.”

Isak slinks back into their studio room after Italian. He’s about half done already, and he knows what he needs to write—it’s just getting the thoughts out and on the paper that’s slowing him down. Not to mention he can barely have a single train of thought when every time he blinks he sees blue eyes.

 _Do it for the lay,_ he thinks, typing one slow sentence after excruciating sentence. But when he imagines his dick getting sucked by a stranger, he’s thinking of _the_ stranger, and now it’s just impossible to write this paper.

Isak lets out a breath with puffed cheeks and closes his laptop. He needs to head to the bathroom and splash his face with cold water or _something_. It doesn’t seem to work, though, because when he lifts his head to look at himself in the mirror, cold droplets clinging to his face, he knows there’s only one solution.

Is he really about to masturbate in his studio’s bathroom? You betcha. 

 

It’s 20:42 when Isak finally manages to finish, snapping his laptop with a satisfying _click_ after he emails the paper to his professor. He didn’t proofread. 

He pulls out his phone and messages Jonas _on my way_ , patting his pockets and triple checking he has everything before the doors lock behind him for the night. Isak tries to wait for a confirmation from Jonas before he no longer has wifi, but he’s antsy, so he leaves.

He preps himself to leave the air conditioning (no one can make models in studio with sweaty hands, okay?), and the heat—even when the sun is down—is like a wall wen he opens the door. It’s not terrible tonight, though, and the locals know it too because the streets are bustling. After he crosses the bridge over the Tiber—which makes for a spectacular view of St. Peter’s dome at night, by the way, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting in the water—he can hear music from street performers and clinking wine glasses on patios of restaurants and laughter in a different language. It’s magical. Rome is magical.

Chakra is a small bar tucked away down an alley hidden by a crowd of people outside with beers in their hands. Isak finds it easily enough. After a quick scan, He decides they aren’t out here and heads inside. It’s a cramped interior—a long bench on the left side with chairs, a bar with high-tops mirroring it on the right, a few round tables in the front and a comfy looking seating area with coffee tables in the back. Tapestries hang from the walls and the ceilings while The Who softly sounds from the stereo system. A large list of beer selections written on a chalk board hangs behind the bar.

There’s a lot more people outside than inside, so it only takes him a moment to realize his friends aren’t here at all.

Isak debates whether he should go back to the studio to use the wifi and see if Jonas left him a message, but realizes the doors locked behind him for the night. Oh well, he would have gone back to the apartment anyway to drop his backpack off. He can check on the group then and meet them wherever.

But he’s internally berating himself when he walks through the threshold of his building and into the lobby as the security guard asks for his ID and he’s patting his pockets helplessly. He can’t fucking find it, of course. He digs through his whole backpack, tears apart his wallet, and fishes through all his pockets again to no avail.

“If you just let me in, I bet I just left it in my room,” Isak begs. “Once I find it I can run it right back down and show you.”

The guard at least looks somewhat sympathetic. “Sorry,” he shrugs. “But if I let one kid forget their ID, I have to let them all. You can use the phone to call up to your apartment for your roommates if you want—see if they can find your ID.” He picks up the lobby phone behind his desk and offers it to Isak.

Isak scowls—audibly—and the guard flinches a little. This is just his fucking luck. “They’re out.”

“Look—” the guard leans in to whisper. “You’re just going to have to wait until they get back, then. I’ve seen you around. I know you live here, so you can wait in the lobby for them if you want.”

Isak doesn’t want to do that, though—he doesn’t want to be in the same room with this fucking security guard. And it’s not _his_ fault. It’s Isak’s. And that’s what’s so frustrating about this. So with a huff, he turns around through the door and sits grumpily on the steps of the threshold, the breeze of the night almost making up for the heat.

He takes out his phone only to realize there’s not much he can do on it with no connection, so after about fifteen minutes of scrolling through his camera roll, he pockets it.

“Halla.”

Isak knows he’s going to look up into blue the second before his brain catches up, and when he does, his stomach ties itself into a bow and a smirk just can’t help but tug at his lips.

Maybe his luck has changed. Isak silently thanks all the steps of today that lead him right here. Right here to this stranger that took a piece of him away after their brief encounter. Right here to this stranger that Isak can’t seem to forget, to this stranger he feels a gravity inducing pull towards for no other reason than he has beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile and—he doesn’t know why he assumes this but he just _knows_ —a beautiful soul.

“Hei,” Isak manages to squeak back a little lower and a little calmer than he expected, so that’s a win.

“Do you mind if I sit?” The way he asks makes Isak unsure if he remembers who he is.

 _No, not at all,_ he thinks, but instead just purses his lips in a tight smile and gestures towards the space beside him.

Mr. Michelangelo wannabe takes out a cigarette, which is a little off-putting, but Isak _totally_ doesn’t gawk for the briefest moment as his lips curl around it and his cheeks hollow a bit as he sucks in. Not at all.

He passes the cigarette to Isak. “I usually don’t smoke, but—” Michelangelo nudges his shoulder with his shoulder and a buzz of electricity leaves the contact point a little numb, “when in Rome.” He winks and Isak thinks he might die.

Isak’s never smoked a cigarette in his life, but he takes it. The hit is mild, just a little bad-tasting. Luckily his lungs have had plenty of practice smoking something a little stronger with the boys, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself by coughing. “Takk,” he smiles.

Michelangelo looks forward, his eyes following the people in the streets, his long legs jostling impatiently—“You have no idea how nice it is to hear Norwegian.” His eyes drift back to Isak as he hands the cigarette back. “I’m sorry I bolted in St. Peter’s. I tried to find you again.”

This makes Isak’s heart jump a little, but he pushes his hopes down for fear of reading too far into a (probably) straight guy who’s most likely just starved for a native friend. But a little part of Isak wonders if this stranger has been thinking about him all week, too.

He’s trying to think of something to say and wondering if maybe he’s missed something. Okay, so Michelangelo is from Norway. If he remembers correctly, he said he’s been going to school in the states for the past five years—and now—

“What leads you to Rome?” Isak decides. It doesn’t sound too prodding and hopefully will lead to some back story.

“School,” Michelangelo blows out smoke with his answer. “I’m an art history major. And an Italian major. And a film major.” His smirk is only a little smug, but Isak likes it. “Kind of killing two birds with one stone right now—here for my thesis in art history while also living with a host family to finish my Italian requirements.”

Isak raises his eyebrows—impressed. He takes the cigarette back. He’s conflicted on how much it calms his nerves and how he’s hoping Michelangelo will light another to share when this one is done. “And you’re from Norway,” Isak amuses.

“I am,” Michelangelo smiles. “Got accepted into film school in the states and I haven’t been home since. Not by choice, really, I’ve just been busy. My family actually went on vacation here during the summer after my first year and I fell in love.” He looks around after a pause, closing his eyes for a second longer than a blink to relish in the Roman air. “After that, I was busy with summer school. Taking on two additional majors, you know. If I wanted to graduate in a semi-reasonable amount of time, I had to be an around-the-clock student.”

Isak smiles at him, their eyes locking for a moment and he realizes his face might be a little too gooey—melting with fondness. So he shakes himself a bit, licks his lip and jams his tongue into his cheek to suppress the smile. He hasn’t felt this light-hearted in… let’s just say a long time.

“But enough about me,” Michelangelo nudges him again. “What leads _you_ to Rome?”

“Same,” Isak deadpans. “Well—school,” he corrects. “I’m not living with a host family or anything. My university back in Oslo has an architecture program that owns a studio here—so I’ll be here for a semester with my class.”

“Architecture,” Michelangelo nods. “This is definitely the place.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, but luckily it isn’t terribly awkward. Michelangelo lights another cigarette and they pass it back and forth until the whole thing is almost gone again. Isak wonders why he doesn’t just offer him his own cigarette and lights another for himself—but he doesn’t mind that their fingers brush a little between every pass and the warmth of the stranger’s mouth lingers on the end when Isak slips it between his lips. Really, he doesn’t mind at all.

“Are you going out tonight?” Michelangelo breaks the silence.

“I was supposed to,” Isak snorts. “I actually live here—” he gestures up to the façade behind them. “I don’t have an international data plan—I just use wifi—and I was supposed to meet my friends slash roommates at this bar a few blocks up, but when I got there, they must have left already. So now I have no way to get in touch with them because I’m essentially locked out,” he chuckles at his own misfortune, finishing the cigarette and smashing it with his foot on the pavement. “What about you?” The way he asks sounds a little desperate. But shit, maybe he is.

Michelangelo thinks for a minute, his eyebrows crinkling and his blonde hair does a little bounce when his head rests in his hands. Isak’s heart seizes slightly and he wishes he could scold himself. “I have friends in class and stuff,” he admits. “But living with a host family can get kind of lonely. I’m not here with people I know or anything, so I don’t usually go out. I’m not a big drinker, anyway.”

“What are you doing out now, then?” Isak blurts. Yep, definitely not desperate.

Michelangelo turns his head to meet Isak’s eyes again and Isak wishes he could take this moment and put it in a jar for safe keeping. If he could pause time, he’d pause it now and spend the rest of his life debating on whether he should ever unpause. There’s something magical about this look, and Isak—for once—doesn’t think he’s reading too far into it.

“This is my favorite time of day,” he smirks. Isak would ask for an explanation but he thinks he already knows. The lights are twinkling. It smells like dinner on every corner. Music from street performers blends into each other as you walk down the cobblestone alleyways. The locals are chatting as they cross the street in what is arguably the prettiest language to listen to. “And Trastevere is my favorite neighborhood.” He’s so charming Isak can’t decide if he knows it or not. “What time do you think your roommates will be home?” he changes topics.

Isak glances at the time. It’s only 21:21. He grunts. “Probably not until like 2:00. Maybe 3:00.”

Michelangelo gets up and sinks Isak’s heart along with it. It shouldn’t be this painful to watch someone he doesn’t (okay, barely even) know walk away. But instead, a hand reaches down for him.

“Join me.”

Isak just gives him a confused look.

“Join me,” he repeats. “You don’t need to sit here all night.”

Isak takes his hand and feels absolutely weightless being dragged up to his feet. He swears he feels his palm being squeezed before letting go, but brushes that thought away quickly. He needs to suppress his hopes in a bottomless pit. Now. 

“It’s Isak, by the way,” he confesses as they start to walk because he doesn’t think he can go another second without knowing. He can allow himself this. At the very least, he can allow himself this stranger’s name to repeat to himself in his head on a long train ride or to whisper lightly late at night when no one else is around. Sometimes, you just have to keep a part of yourself to yourself and not feel ashamed about it.

“Halla, Isak,” he says so full of light Isak changes his mind—he would pause right here, instead. “Even,” he extends his hand to shake.

“Halla, Even.”

 

His name is like a song stuck in his head and he hates it. He hates that he _loves_ it. Why does he do this to himself.

Even buys two bottles of wine at a convenience mart tucked away around the corner before they hop on the tram. The ride is short—they get off at Piazza Venezia, which they could have easily walked to.

“I thought you said you weren’t a big drinker?” Isak jokes. He feels a little more confident with each step—trying to pound into his head that this is going to be a friendship. _Friends,_ he repeats to himself. Just. Friends.

“Only on special occasions.”

Isak tries to take that with a grain of salt, but the butterflies in his stomach multiply. He’s off to a terrible start.

Even’s host family lives in a luxurious fifth-floor apartment in the Tridente neighborhood, right along Via Del Corso with a spectacular balcony view of Altare della Patria when you look to the left and of Piazza del Popolo when you look to the right. 

“Yeah, they’re loaded,” Even admits when he catches Isak on the balcony. He wanders out there when Even drops the bottles on the counter and fishes through the drawers for an opener. When he finds one, he peeks his head through a few doors and mumbles, “sweet,” before coming out to meet him. “They’re gone.” He’s uncorking their first bottle of wine and Isak tries to concentrate on anything besides how Even can make literally everything look sexy.

He hates himself for thinking like this. Thinks maybe he should just leave instead, but Even is handing him a glass of wine, waggling his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his own. Isak is about to play a dangerous game.

It’s so easy to talk to Even after the first glass. His nerves melt away into the haziness of his brain, and their banter is a good mixture of genuine interest and teasing. (Isak tries to ignore the teasing, though, because he likes it too much.)

They lean over the railing of the balcony for what could either be three minutes or three hours, Isak’s not sure. What he is sure of, though, is this: Even used to live in Norway. He went to Bakka back in Oslo. He’s finishing his last year of university here in Italy—not leaving until the beginning of summer next year. He’s been here since May. He misses his friends back in Norway and back in the states a lot. He hasn’t seen his family in over a year, and he would give anything for a quick trip back home. He likes old school hip hop (but also has some other questionable music choices). He’s a fabulous drawer. (And Isak is holding it to him to show him some sketches. He seems nervous, though. Isak thinks it’s cute.) He’s ridiculously smart in that arty, pretentious, wise kind of way, not in that know-it-all, bookworm, teacher’s pet kind of way. He has a dry sense of humor—when Isak thinks he’s joking, he’s not, and when Isak think’s he’s not, he is. He’s charming. (This one confuses Isak because he’s not sure if it’s just part of his personality or if Isak has been deemed worthy of his charm. He tucks that away for later.) ~~He has the most beautiful eyes Isak has ever seen. He’s dangerously handsome. He wants to kiss him.~~

That was the wine talking. Totally the wine. They’ve downed both bottles by now, and Even totally isn’t any closer to him. Not at all. It’s just the wine.

(Even is a little closer though.)


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter 2.](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/164381354671/boy-with-a-basket-of-fruit-skam-chapter-26)

They don’t exchange numbers. They don’t. Exchange. Goddamn. Numbers. And Isak is kicking himself over and over and over again. 

Maybe it’s the wine that makes him forget, or the fact that he suddenly realizes it’s three in the morning and his friends probably think he’s dead. Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen Even pull his phone out since they met in St. Peter’s and he’s so ethereal it’s hard to focus on the next moment, let alone the moment he’s currently in. Either way, when Even walks him to the door, seeing him again just feels like an inevitability—never mind the fact Isak now has no way to contact him.

I guess that’s one of Isak’s strengths. He’s very practiced at living in the moment. Right now, though, he’s cursing himself for it.

A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him this might be for the best, but he tells it to shut up.

And nothing goes wrong. Actually, everything goes _right._ Isak and Even stay up on the balcony before Isak realizes he should ask for the wifi, suddenly bombarded after he connects with messages from Jonas ranging from _where are you?_ to _Dde i’n siooo druikknnnn._ After a quick call to Noora, because she doesn’t drink and is probably the only one with her head screwed on straight, she manages to persuade a drunk Jonas to fish through their room and find Isak’s ID. She’s a goddamn hero.

That’s the problem, though. If Even hadn’t brought up this (totally interesting sounding, by the way) documentary he just watched that revolved around the likes of social media and instant messaging, Isak wouldn’t have even remembered to contact his friends at all. He could have chatted with Even into the wee hours of the morning, torturing himself by shoving his feelings deep down as he falls a little farther with every word Even says.

So fuck. Now here he is—a week later and only one step further. He has a name. Not even a last name, just a name. He types _Even_ into every social media search he can to no avail. The amount of times he considers just showing up at Even’s host parent’s apartment borders on stalker-ish. The little hole in his heart that says _he knows where you live, too_ eats away at him, because if Even wants to find Isak, he knows where to go. Isak just hopes maybe they’re in the same boat—too scared to move.

So he has a new routine, now. And it totally doesn’t have to do with what Even said about how his favorite time of day is the evening and his favorite neighborhood is Trastevere. Not at all. So when Isak takes his (now) nightly walks around the neighborhood, he’s not thinking about bumping into Even. Nope, not at all.

But he _does_ have an excuse. If anything, it’s excellent motivation to do his homework. He’s in the middle of an ethnographic study of the Trastevere neighborhood (which he didn’t pick, by the way, it was assigned) for his studio class—his job is to identify the neighborhood. Find out who lives here, who works here, how people get around, where people shop, where they go to relax, where they go to be entertained… you get the picture. When his research is compiled, he’ll start sketching and, eventually, model building. It’s a good system, really. Find out about the neighborhood. Find out what it needs. There’s a really interesting twist to it, too, because Rome has what you might call a “style guide.” All new buildings (with the exception of a few) must be built in the baroque or renaissance style. There’s even a color palette for what’s allowed on the facade of the building. It gives Rome it’s old world charm. It’s what keeps it magical. Isak won’t lie—he’s excited for this project. What he’s going to design, though? He has no idea.

He’s testing the universe, asking for it to collide them together again. Maybe it’s the fact he wants it to, maybe the universe it just a dick, or maybe it has other plans—and that’s why it doesn’t listen. It never really does, though.

So he appreciates the people and the buildings and the neighborhood in general, actually enjoying his excuse/motivation to be a good student. But like the past five nights, he doesn’t see him.

 

———

 

Isak thinks by the middle of September things might start to cool down, but he is very wrong. Instead, sweater weather seems like a distant memory. 

However, all the walking in the world can’t make up for the large quantities of pasta and wine and chocolate he seems to consume—so he pushes his _it’s too hot to workout_ excuse to the side and commits himself to wake up early for a run.

Since Isak can’t wake up for shit, though, he snoozes his alarm for a whole hour and wakes up with not enough time to take the tram before class to Villa Borghese park where he wants to run—so he’ll have to make due around here.

Instead of being honest with himself about how his lungs are burning more than usual because it’s been a month and a half since he last ran, he tells himself it’s because he’s not used to running in such hot weather. It feels good, though. He likes this burn. It’s nice and distracting.

When he comes upon a wide outdoor staircase with a large mural of a woman painted on it, leading high up to what looks like a landing, he decides to punish himself by doing a few circuits up and down. He can only handle a few of those, though, before his legs give up and he’s sitting on the eye of the mural. Damn all that pasta.

“Want to race?”

The voice is a familiar one, and not only because it’s in his native tongue. It’s because he hears it in his thoughts every day and his dreams every night.

The universe really is toying with him. _Fuck you,_ he thinks to it. It really would do this to him—collide him with Even when he’s a sweaty, breathy mess (and not in a sexy way).

Even comes trotting down the stairs behind him, dressed like Isak—swishy shorts and a plain white t-shirt—only he also has on this ridiculous neon yellow headband. Isak should think it’s stupid but instead he thinks it’s cute.

Even is pulling an earbud out to listen to Isak’s response, but Isak only gawks, suddenly nervous. He tries not to think of how red and wet his face is and how his shirt is probably transparent from sweat up by his neck and in the middle of his back. Isak pushes his hair back with one hand and immediately grimaces. It’s drenched. His brain starts to do this thing, though, where it’s imagining Even like this, and yeah, okay, it’s kind of hot. The only thing he can do now is use that knowledge to his advantage and pray for some reverse psychology. So, he lifts the bottom of his shirt to use as a towel and wipes his face—exposing his stomach. He can’t see if Even’s eyes flicker around at all, but when he puts his shirt back down, he sees Even’s adam’s apple wiggle in what looks like a nervous swallow.

He’s feeling a bit better now.

Even subtly shakes back to reality. “This is my morning workout territory,” he teases. “If you want it, you have to race me for it.”

“That’s not fair,” Isak snaps back. “I’m already beat.”

“Think of it as you’ve already warmed up,” Even squints with a smile, taking the last few steps down in a confident and intimidating way until he’s right next to Isak, reaching a hand out to help him up.

Isak rolls his eyes and doesn’t take it, pushing himself up instead. That seems to make Even suppress a smile by biting his lip, and Isak makes a mental note to be a brat more often if that’s the response he gets. “Fine,” he chokes, jogging to the bottom of the flight. “Sprint to the top. First one up wins.”

Even follows him and jumps down the last two steps like a show-off, gently landing on his left. “Okay,” he agrees. “On three—no, on one.”

Isak takes a deep breath, bent down a bit to get some momentum. Even’s tall, like really fucking tall, and his legs may be long, but he doesn’t think Even knows what’s coming.

“Three,” Even starts.

Isak’s grin is tugging up at his lips. He’s feeling more confident than ever, his endorphins at an all time high after his run and not at all because of Even. Not at all.

“Two.”

They’re looking at each other now, smiles reaching their eyes.

“One.”

Isak tries to move but falls flat, his shirt being tugged down behind him—Even, that little shit.

Right now is not the time for Isak to be endeared by an act of immature, competitive fuckery, but he is, shouting, “that’s cheating! You can’t do that!” to Even at least twenty steps above him by now as he scrambles to his feet. He manages to close the gap somewhat, Even only beating him by a hair, which means he _so would have won_ if Even didn’t cheat. “I don’t accept losing like that,” he huffs.

“Then let’s do it again,” Even smiles, slightly bent over to catch his breath with his hands on his knees, his hair loosely flopping over his headband.

Isak’s already jogging down the stairs, calling, “fine!” over his shoulder. “But you stand over there,” he points to the far end of the landing, making way for the other side. They get into ready position again. “And I get to count.” Isak actually feels confident enough to wink. In a totally platonic, competitive way of course. “Three,” he starts. “Two. One!” He’s smirking the whole time as he sees Even slowly falling behind out of the corner of his eye, feeling cocky and taking the last few steps two-by-two and beating Even by _at least_ a whole three, solid seconds.

“Fuck,” Even pants when he reaches the top, sweat clinging to his shirt and dampening his hair. And yep, Isak was right. It’s kind of hot.

“How would you like to break the ‘tie,’” Isak can’t help but flirt, using air quotes around the last word because cheating shouldn’t count.

Even smiles open mouthed, still panting a little with his hands on his hips as he tries to catch his breath. He takes a step into Isak’s bubble, which causes him to loose his footing a little and take a nervous gulp. “I guess we can share.”

Isak’s brain is doing this thing where it just decides to stop working, so that’s great. All he can do it look at Even. His stupid blonde hair bouncing over his stupid headband. His stupid long legs taking a baby step closer. His stupid eyes—okay, those aren’t stupid. But this whole thing is stupid.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. This is a stupid time to ask for his number, but he gets distracted by the time. “I have to go,” Isak says dully.

“I’ll see you here tomorrow morning?” It sounds more like a demand, but Isak doesn’t mind.

Isak lifts his shirt again to wipe the sweat from his forehead, this time more as an experiment—peeking one eye out after a half-second and yep—Even’s eyes definitely flicker down. Isak lowers his shirt to reveal a smirk hidden by a bitten lip. “Okay,” he shrugs, playing it cool.

So they don’t have each other numbers, but they have a standing date. Well, not a _date_ date. Isak’s having a hard time seeing the downside here, though.

He's going to take the tram back to the apartment to shower but decides to run instead, suddenly full of energy. 

Isak tries to tell himself Even wasn’t flirting with him, but Even was definitely flirting with him.

 

———

 

He overthinks things, though. Isak’s memories have this dirty habit of making him second guess himself. _He wasn’t looking at you like that. He’s not into you._

That night, Isak flops on his bed, back first and limbs spread like a starfish. Mahdi and Magnus are at the grocery store, and once Jonas gets home from studio, they’re going to head downstairs and have dinner with the girls.

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to have a crush. Crushes are hard. Crushes are stupid. Crushes chew you up and spit you back out and then decide you are actually kind of tasty, so they chew you up again and finally decide to swallow you whole.

It feels nice to be over Julian. It feels terrible to replace it with something more of the same. The two sensations cancel each other out until his brain is numb.

He needs to fucking talk to someone. Someone who understands.

His thumb hesitates over Eskild’s contact. There are a few rings, and then—“You can call people through Facebook?” Eskild hums impressed on the other end. It’s the only way Isak can make a call.

“Eskild, when does it stop,” Isak deadpans, his eyes finding patterns in the ceiling—of Even’s hair. Of his face. Of his eyes. He shuts them, but that makes it worse.

Eskild sounds amused. “When does what stop?”

Isak sighs. “Liking straight guys.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Eskild exhales sympathetically. “It happens to the best of us.”

Isak doesn’t say anything. He thinks this is all so unfair—wondering what he did in a past life that was so horrible it dealt this misfortune on him. To be honest, he still struggles a lot.

There’s just silence between them for a moment before Eskild breaks it. "Would you like some guru-advising?”

“Please,” Isak squeaks.

“You’re not stupid, nor a fool," Eskild starts with a huff. "People send mixed signals all the time, and sometimes it’s no one’s fault. Some people are just a flirt—and some people do things just for attention. You’re not a puppet for someone’s egotistical gain. You need to love people who love _you,_ and not just people who love to be loved _by_ you.”

Isak knows all of this is true, but it doesn’t help, because this doesn’t really sound like Even. Or maybe it does. Fuck, Isak doesn’t know him that well. He thinks. Maybe. “Thanks, Eskild,” he tries to mumble as sincerely as possible.

“How is Rome?” Eskild tries to change the subject with a bright voice that Isak can’t mimic.

“It’s good,” he mumbles the automatic response. He just doesn’t feel like talking anymore.

There’s an audible sigh on the other end. It’s an empathetic one, but it has frustrated undertones. “Chin up, pretty boy. You’re adorable. Anybody would be lucky to have you. Can’t you go find some hot Italian guy at a gay bar to get your mind off things?”

He could, but he doesn’t want to. “I don’t want that, Eskild,” he admits.

“Nei,” Isak can hear his smile on the other line. “You never really have. You just want love.”

He does. He really, really does. He just wants someone to _be_ there with him. Suddenly, loneliness is like a thousand little bugs eating him alive. He debates whether he should just lie there and let them. “It sucks,” he chokes.

“My advice?” Eskild sings. “Just forget him. I don’t know who this mystery man is, but he’s not worth it. Stop seeing him, stop talking to him, just…” there’s an exasperated sigh, and Isak can picture in his mind Eskild waving his arms around frustrated and franticly on the other end, 2,500km away in Oslo—it makes him smile just a little bit. “Just,” he sighs, and Isak pretends he’s standing with his hand on his hip, pinching his nose, “cut all contact.”

That should be easy, seeing as Isak really has no way to contact Even at all. All he has to do is skip his workout tomorrow morning and sleep in, and if that isn’t enough of an incentive, I don’t know what is. 

Jonas comes into the room, dropping his bag and giving Isak a squinty side-eye.

“Thanks, Eskild,” Isak hums sincerely. “I have to go.”

If smiles could make a sound, Isak hears Eskild’s over the line. “Ha det, baby gay. Call me more often, I miss you.”

“You okay?” Jonas asks after Isak hangs up.

“All good in the hood,” Isak mocks in English, pushing himself up from the bed with a spring in his step and shooting a finger gun at Jonas. Yeah, Eskild’s advice made him feel better, but he really just wants to drop it. He can talk to Jonas about it later, maybe. He doesn’t want his pity right now. “Hey,” he changes the subject. “Have you hooked up with Eva yet? Or am I going to have to lock you guys in a closet.” He winces at the innuendo, then laughs at himself.

Jonas lets out a long breath of air with puffed cheeks, dropping his hat and pulling his books out of his bag to drop on his desk. “She’s so hot and cold, man,” he whines. “I mean, we did kiss last week when we went out, and we were like all over each other—and I thought she was going to invite me back up to her room—but nope. Just ‘night, Jonas!’ when we were walking up the stairs and she waltzed through the door like she wasn’t dying of lady blue-balls. Or whatever,” Jonas waves.

“You okay to go over there for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Jonas shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Magnus and Mahdi come in, then, bustling in the kitchen as they empty their grocery bags and shove half into their fridge, sorting the other half for dinner. Jonas steps out to meet them, Isak following after he throws his hat on backward to hide his hair that was ruined by lying down. 

“Man, that one cashier at the grocery store _hates_ me because I always try to break my big bills,” Magnus complains, putting two bottles of wine on top of the fridge for later and taking another two and setting them on the counter for tonight. “Like, hello, you’re a _grocery store,_ ” he whines. “I’m not going to break my hundred euro bill getting a cappuccino.”

“You know, if you actually go _into_ the bank instead of just using the ATM, you can ask for small bills,” Mahdi shoots back. “Or just use your card like a normal person,” he mumbles.

“Not everyone can speak Italian so well,” Magnus defends lamely. “Will you carry this?” He shoves a brown paper bag full of tomatoes, garlic, and bread at Isak.

On the menu tonight is bruschetta, salad, and prosciutto ravioli. And like most nights, they’ll probably walk around the corner to get gelato afterward.

When they walk in to the girls’ apartment, which has the same floor plan as their apartment (only is much cleaner and smells much nicer), they’re immediately greeted by Vilde, who lets them in to toe off their shoes. Isak notices she hangs back with Magnus as Jonas, Mahdi and him make their way to the kitchen where Noora has already set a huge pot of water on the stove to boil.

Sana is sitting at the table, an open textbook in front of her that she ignores while she starts some music up on her laptop. “Hi,” she greets with a quick smile.

“Halla,” Isak absentmindedly shoots back. “Um, I mean, hi,” he corrects in English.

Switching between Norwegian, English, and his very limited Italian is starting to get confusing.

“Halla!” Eva envelops him in a hug from behind, a cutting board and knife magically appearing in her hands as she sets it on the counter, patting it for Isak to start working. He takes out the garlic and tomatoes. “I think that’s enough salt, Noora,” she squints her eyes over to the pot of water.

Noora doesn’t stop pouring, though. “It’s always more salt than you think,” she deadpans. Isak hears her mumble “ _sciocca,_ ” under her breath when Eva rolls her eyes.

Magnus and Vilde make their way back in, and everyone is sitting on countertops and on the table itself because there are only a few chairs. The door to the balcony is open to let out some of the heat—a nice night breeze wafting through.

“I’ve invited another friend over for dinner, if that’s cool,” Eva announces to no one in particular as she carefully removes the sheets of pasta, filling them with the prosciutto mixture. There’s an unmistakable grin on her face. The kind that means she _met_ someone. Isak shoots a sideways glance to Jonas. He hasn’t seemed to pick up on it yet.

“Ugh, Eva,” Noora groans. “You met him, like, literally one hour ago.”

“Good thing _Vilde,_ ” she shoots a deadly glance over at Vilde, who blushes, “drank the last of my wine and I had to go get another bottle. Otherwise, we would have never bumped into each other by the zucchini.” She puts a hand over her heart and closes her eyes all dreamy.

Jonas is sulking.

“And you had the balls to ask him to dinner,” Sana shoots blankly, not looking up from her laptop.

“He seemed lonely,” Eva frowns. “That must be him,” she squeaks when there’s a knock, dropping her spoon and jogging over.

Why does a little part of Isak know who’s about to walk in that door? As if there’s some cosmic force that buzzes his nerves whenever Even is near. The best he can explain it is, like—he is less shocked? Instead of his heart sinking and his brain melting when Even walks in, his breath only catches a little.

It’ll probably take many more random bump-ins before Isak gets the hint. Before he takes the sign from the universe. For now, though, ever since his conversation with Eskild, he curses it. He wishes the universe would just _leave him alone_ —because he knows if he can just _be alone_ —Even will turn into a distant memory. 

When he’s in front of him, though? Fuck. He takes it all back. He wants to hold on. He wishes this rollercoaster would stop.

Despite the cocktail of emotions going on in his brain and heart and stomach, Isak can put on a pretty calm, cool, and confident demeanor. So he just nods and smiles when they meet eyes, a surprised little shock in Even's. 

Eva starts with the introductions, pointing everyone out as Even nods at each of them. Magnus actually gives him a bear hug that warrants a groan from everyone as Eva shoots daggers at him. But when she gets to Isak, he sees Even lick his lip, the corners tugging up. “Halla, Isak.” It’s said with a softness and a sweetness only reserved for him—unless he’s imagining things.

Isak’s not quite sure why they pretend to be strangers, but they do. They pretend to be strangers when they “meet.” They pretend to be strangers when the girls finish cooking and Eva is telling Even’s life story for him even though they just met. They pretend to be strangers when they pull desk chairs and entryway chairs into the kitchen to crowd around a too small table. They pretend to be strangers when they make their plates. They pretend to be strangers when Eva saves a seat for Even right next to her and right across from Isak. They pretend to be strangers even though every glance Even throws Isak’s way indicates that they are _not_ strangers.

Isak doesn’t know what it means. He has just as much power Even does here—can say: _actually, Even and I already know each other._ But after this much time, it seems weird. He tries to go over the story in his head, and yeah, he’s already blushing just thinking about it.

“Even is from Norway,” Eva gleams, making eyes with all the boys. “From Oslo, actually. I’m surprised you don’t know each other?”

“Oslo has half a million people,” Isak snorts into his ravioli. He doesn’t know why he’s being such a dick. Okay, fine, he does. If he sees Eva put her hand on Even’s shoulder one more time he might erupt.

“Can I use your bathroom?” Even pipes up, suddenly uncomfortable. He’s up out of his chair before he even has an answer.

“To the left,” Noora covers her full mouth, pointing with her fork.

When the click of the bathroom door indicates they’re alone, Eva finally unleashes. “Isn’t he _so_ hot?” She makes eyes with the girls.

Isak stabs his ravioli repeatedly.

 

Like an asshole, he dicks around on his phone the rest of dinner, ignoring Even and Eva _who won’t stop touching him_ and everyone else, frankly. He actually offers to do the dishes so he has an excuse to stand in the kitchen and look busy while Even leaves.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Jonas asks, halfway out the door with Magnus and Mahdi while Isak finishes the last few plates. The girls make their way to Eva’s room and cuddle up on her bed while Noora fishes her laptop out to start a movie.

“Nah,” Isak shakes his head. “I’ll meet you up there, I’m almost done.”

Jonas gives him a small salute and calls, “we were thinking about taking a walk, I’ll make sure the guys wait for you,” before he disappears behind the door.

Isak doesn’t want to take a walk. He doesn’t want to do the dishes. The only thing he wants to do is go to bed and sleep, because that’s the only thing that can shut his brain—and his emotions—off.

“Bye,” he calls coldly to the girls, one shoe on as he struggles into the other—halfway out the door. His toe gets caught uncomfortably on something in his right one, so he lets out a sigh that sounds the better part of annoyed to inspect.

Its… a drawing. A drawing in black pen on a half sheet of notebook paper that’s been folded a few times over. A cartoon version of Isak and Even are sitting on the mural stairs. Even is wearing his headband. Above it, it says _see you tomorrow._

 

———

 

The smart thing, here, would be to not go. It would be to sleep in, ignore the heat, and go to class. Just like Eskild told him. _Just cut all contact._ So please tell Isak why he is wide awake at 6:00 a.m. Why he _purposefully_ sets an alarm for 9:00 but is instead spread eagle on his bed and staring at the ceiling, every minute excruciatingly slow.

Fuck it.

If this is going to happen, it’s going to happen on Isak’s terms. If there’s any game to be played here, Isak’s the fucking referee.

He changes as silently as possible to not wake Jonas, lacing up his running shoes. He digs through his closet for a shirt, realizing they’re all dirty, and says fuck it all together. He grabs his water bottle and bounces down the staircase half-naked, too early to care.

It’s only a five minute run to the the steps, but it’s just enough to get Isak’s blood pumping and his endorphins rising. A little relief washes through him when he gets there and doesn’t spot Even, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. It’s really his only chance to be like _welp, I tried,_ and turn around, but his feet are like magnets to these stairs. An undeniable pull. He realizes he’s nervous, maybe, because now this relief is turning into anxiety. 

After about four circuits up and down, too winded to do another, he slumps on the top step and takes a long drink from his water. It really is beautiful from up here—he can see his apartment. The Tiber river. People bustling about as the morning starts to rise.

“Have you been to Colle del Gianicolo?” Even’s voice comes from behind him, which makes him jump. Fine, Isak’s been scanning for a yellow headband at the bottom of the steps, not at all angry when he turns around to find it perched under floppy hair and above blue eyes.

“Huh?” Isak sounds stupid. He mentally kicks himself.

“We can run there,” Even gestures, reaching his hand out to help Isak up. A ritual, it seems. There’s a weird smirk on his face, complete with crinkly eyes and scrunched nose. “I was going to suggest getting a cappuccino after this…” he trails. “But uh, no shoes, no _shirt,_ ” he chuckles and Isak turns red. “No service, is usually the case.”

“They were all dirty, and I was going to sweat through it anyways,” Isak fights lamely with a grimace. Why does he even bother opening his mouth sometimes. “What’s the point of being extra hot if I just need to wash another shirt?”

Even is trying really hard not to smile. At least Isak thinks so. His mind twists everything around, he swears. “Mhm.” Even is biting his lip. Fuck. “Extra hot.”

Isak’s brain blacks that out. Probably for the best. He’s not going to think about it later in the shower. Not at all. “And _what’s the point_ of racing for this spot if you’re just going to make me run somewhere else?” Isak continues, a little snotty. But in a playful way. 

Fuck, no. He doesn’t want to be playful. He’s a disaster right now.

“This isn’t even a discussion anymore,” Even laughs. “You can’t live here and never go to Colle del Gianicolo. It’s amazing. We’re running there.”

Even doesn’t give him time to respond before darting, making Isak play catch up as they run uphill for what seems like way too long before they reach a long stretch of road with trees Isak has never seen before flanking either side. A giant sculpture in the middle of a square looms in the distance at the end, and Isak guesses that’s their destination.

Even ignores it, though, instead veering to the right and slowing down to a jog and then a walk once they step foot in the square. “This way,” he barely manages to pant, waving his arm.

The view from the top of this hill is breathtaking, and not just because Isak is literally out of breath. It’s definitely worth the run all the way up here. He can see everything: The Altare della Patria. The dome of the Pantheon. Parts of the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. And in the distance, rolling mountains. To the left is St. Peter’s and Castel Sant'Angelo, and straight ahead and farther uphill is a small lighthouse veering off to the right.

“This is probably the best view of Rome you don’t have to pay for,” Even adds, sitting on the ledge that overlooks the view, feet dangling. “Well, I guess you have to physically pay for it," he pants with a smile, gesturing to his out of breath self. "I didn’t do a lot of research—okay, well, a lot of research that didn’t have to do with history and art—before I came here,” he admits. “I'd much rather just aimlessly wander around. Get to know the city with a mental map,” he points to his head, still breathing heavily.

“It’s beautiful,” Isak breathes, sitting next to him and taking a long pull from his water bottle. He offers it to Even, who gladly drinks the rest minus one last gulp. For Isak.

“I’m glad I found it.” Even’s smile hides something—maybe fondness.

Isak returns it weakly.

And here’s the awkward silence. Isak sure doesn’t want to bring up last night and how or why they pretended to not know each other. It feels like a secret—but why? What is there to hide? And what is there to hide right now, between each other?

“Your friend, Eva,” Even begins and oh thank god, someone is finally saying something. Isak doesn’t even care that it’s about Eva. “She’s, uh. She’s something.”

Isak snickers. “I think she’s keen on you.” He’s looking down, playing with the hem of his shorts.

“She’s cute.”

Isak’s stomach eats itself alive.

“Do you like her?” Even treads. Isak can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or trying not to insert himself into a possible romance.

The snort that escapes Isak is utterly too loud, probably out of defense. It’s funny, okay? He hasn’t had anyone ask if he’s had a crush on a girl in a long ass time. “Nei,” he laughs. “Not at all. I mean, she’s a cool person, but nei. Not like that.”

Even just nods, like it is but also isn’t the answer he’s looking for. Isak wishes he could read his mind.

There’s a rock in his stomach now, the kind that can’t be dissolved by the acid inside that is suddenly flaring, making him feel sick. These two sensations are having a fight—it makes him nauseous. Like every hope has officially been squashed. With that in mind, Isak might as well ask. “Why didn’t you—”

Apparently, though, Even can read Isak’s mind. “I don’t know,” he cuts him off with a sharp stare. His eyes are still warm, though. He looks like he wants to repeat himself, or maybe go on, but he doesn’t. There are words at the tip of his tongue, Isak can almost see them trying to escape. He desperately wants to know what they are. “Why didn’t you?”

Isak gives him the same answer, but lamely. Unlike Even, he really _doesn’t_ know.

“Not everyone needs to know everything about you,” Even settles, like he’s telling himself more than he’s telling Isak. “Sometimes it’s nice to keep a piece just for yourself.”

Isak’s heart is swelling. He’s probably taking this out of context, but the way Even is talking makes him sound like the piece. His eyes close for a few seconds as he shakes that idea right out of his head. 

He can’t come back here tomorrow, he decides. He is one step away from the edge of falling. “I have to get back and shower before class.”

Even follows him up and they jog nice and easy back down the long stretch of road. “Wear a shirt tomorrow,” he smirks. “So we can get a cappuccino afterward.”

It’s so, so tempting.

 

So tempting, in fact, that Isak metaphorically takes the wires that connect his brain to his heart and cuts them. He has a new motto, now: do whatever the fuck you want. 

And that includes waking up (gladly, who would have thought) every morning and meeting Even at the mural stairs—punishing his body with laps up and down until they’re both winded. They usually race; they usually have a pissing contest because they’re both sore losers and would rather literally keel over from exhaustion before, god forbid, _losing_ to the other. Sometimes, when they’re tired, they run up to Colle del Gianicolo and do more sitting and talking than running—but no one has to know. And then they cross the Tiber river to their favorite bar and undo their whole workout with a cappuccino freddo and a ciambella. Sometimes two.

Isak considers them friends, now. It’s absolutely torturous, but that’s what they are.

“How’s your project going?” Even asks, legs swinging over the ledge at Colle del Gianicolo where they’re both perched.

Isak hums in contemplation. Besides the fact that he’s put very little thought into it because his mind’s been, well, _preoccupied,_ he’s barely started on part two of the project: actually deciding what to design. His ethnographic study is just about finished, he just has to sit down and look at everything he’s observed and try to find a connecting line through it all. Like most of his projects, a single, genius idea will come to him late at night, probably mere weeks before it’s due, and he’ll scramble to finish. The end result is usually pretty impressive, though. He’s at the top of his class. No one really envies his process, however. It’s quite stressful—waiting for an idea to strike, and hopefully not too late. “Good, I think,” he responds. He’s described it to Even before, who grasped well onto the history part of it, but struggles with the physics and math part of, well, actually designing a building. “I need to sit down and go through my notes and shit.”

“If you need, like, a persona study or anything, my host family used to live in Trastevere,” Even offers.

Isak will keep that in mind. “How are they doing?”

“They’re wonderful. I really couldn’t have asked for better hosts. They’re right when they say living in another country is the best way to learn the language,” Even smiles.

“Say something in Italian,” Isak borderline begs. He hears Even speak it every so often—when he orders their usual at the bar, when he passes by a local on their run. It’s beautiful.

Even hums, thinking. “How good is your Italian?”

“It’s shit,” Isak admits. “You’ve seen me, I can barely order a cappuccino.”

“Isak. All you have to say is, ‘un cappuccino, per favore.’” Even’s making fun of him and it is _so_ not cute. If that doesn’t warrant a death glare, I don’t know what does, so Isak gives him one. “Ok,” Even breathes with a laugh, then pauses. “Sei l’uomo dei miei sogni.”

“Sei l’uomo—” Isak tries. “Wait, say it again.”

There’s a giant smile on Even’s face, and it’s contagious.

“You little shit! What did you say? Say it again!”

“I guess you’ll never know,” Even teases, probably to make Isak pout more.

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

Even’s jaw drops in fake offense, a finger jabbing into his own chest. “Me? You’re the one who wanted me to say something!”

“Shut up,” Isak mumbles through a smile.

 

———

 

This weird, double life thing keeps going on, though. Even hasn’t become a regular at their dinners, per say, but he’s at the girls’ apartment the better half of the week to help chop veggies and make pasta and—oh, god, actually cook. And it’s good. And it makes Isak swoon. They pretend they don’t see each other every goddamn morning (yes, even on the weekends) and get to know each other all over again. Isak does this thing where he asks Even questions he’s already asked before, a bratty smirk on his face that Even returns with a sly one. He pretends to be engrossed, nodding his head sarcastically with wide eyes and rising eyebrows while Even tries not to tell him to stop it and shut up in the middle of his story. It feels like a best kept secret. Isak wants to hold on and let go for dear life.

It’s not the best system. It’s not the most practical. It’s actually a terrible way to live life, to be honest. Is Isak drowning in a pool of self-pity every night? Yes. Is he knowingly torturing himself? Yes. Is he falling for Even? Maybe. (It’s actually yes but he doesn’t admit that to himself yet.)

And It’s funny, because Isak can feel Eva’s angry eyes on him whenever he and Even share a joke. It almost makes the constant flirting and touching between them (Isak will tell you it’s one sided, though) bearable. He always sits across the empty seat by Eva, because she’ll have a heart attack if Even sits anywhere else. He thinks the sheer number of times Even bumps their knees together after every fleeting glance or touch from Eva—and just keeps them there—can no longer be a coincidence. 

The usual crowd is smushed together around the too small kitchen table of the girls’ apartment, passing around the wine first (because it’s important, okay) and then the salad and then the carbonara. 

“Where are you going for your architecture history class tomorrow?” Even asks the boys. And he thinks he’s trying to be funny, trying to be like Isak, because he already asked him this morning. Isak throws him a smirk, but one of those _oh yeah?_ smirks.

“The Campidoglio,” Magnus buts in.

“One of my favorite spots here,” Even nods. “You should check it out at night. It’s eery and magical at the same time.”

“Sounds romantic,” Eva cuts in.

The rest of dinner goes like this. Even and Isak playing their dumb question game. Even taking a genuine interest in what the boy squad and girl squad are doing in class. Eva being dramatic about Even. There are too many emotions for Isak to handle, so he starts clearing plates, and, like usual when he can’t bring himself to say bye to Even, offers to do the dishes.

“What are you doing now?” Isak hears Eva ask as she walks Even to the door, the boys shoving their shoes on and trailing out. Isak can hear the echoes as they trudge up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. He’s watching Eva and Even from the corner of his eye, turning the water down to hear better.

“Just going home,” Even shrugs, lingering as he slips his shoes on one at a time.

“Let’s take a walk.” Eva is way too close to his face. Isak’s insides are boiling.

“I really should go—” but Eva cuts him off. In the worst way possible. With her mouth.

Isak feels like he might actually throw up. In what is probably a mixture of panic and grief, he leaves the dish he stopped cleaning a few minutes ago to eavesdrop in the water, a few other dirty ones stacked up beside it, and cuts around them and out the door—Even breaking away with what looks like regret. “Night,” Isak mutters bitterly, grabbing his shoes and not even bothering to put them on.

 

He has a conversation with the universe that night. _You can’t tell me there’s nothing going on,_ Isak thinks into the void, like he’s talking to it. _I can tell myself there’s nothing going on, but you can’t._ Like the asshole the universe is, it doesn’t respond. It sits there coldly, making patterns on the back of Isak’s eyelids while he lies face down on his bed. _What do you want from me? Why are you_ doing _this to me?_ Again, there’s nothing. _Do you want me to admit it? Will you finally leave me alone if I do? I don’t even want an answer. I don’t even want Even._ Alright, that’s a little bit of a stretch. But really, _if I can just be happy, I don’t care what you give me. Give me Even. Take him away from me for good. I can’t live in this limbo anymore._

So that’s why, when Even doesn’t show up for their run on the last day of September, it feels like a personal attack—sent directly from the universe itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you checked out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/4CdqjUGEc9kiu0PW4wVh7U) yet? Talk to me on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)!


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter 3.](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/164419629341/boy-with-a-basket-of-fruit-skam-chapter-36) (because if you know what Piazza Navona it looks like it's going to make the last scene 100x more magical.)

Isak’s only freaking out a little bit. 

It’s been almost two weeks now that he’s running in the mornings alone. He jogs to the steps, does a few circuits up and down, rests, does it again. Rinse and repeat. He waits all the way until the last minute he has to leave for class, but Even never shows. It’s probably just sheer denial motivating him at this point.

But what else does he have? He feels like his _run into cute boys randomly in a city of three million people_ quota is running dry, and he’s not too keen on overstepping the universe right now. Especially when it seems like all it wants to do is play games with Isak’s heart. And fine, he did specifically ask the universe to take Even away from him, but only if that was the only option for Isak to be happy.

He didn’t want _this_ to happen. He didn’t _literally_ want the universe to take him away in a blind rush never to be seen again with no warning. No anything.

I guess he could find Even if he wants to—he’s walked all the way to Via Del Corso, right up to where Even lives three times now before turning back around. But what’s his excuse? If Even doesn’t want to see him anymore, then fine. It hurts, though.

Isak’s almost starting to forget what he looks like—Even’s details becoming fuzzy. He can see most of it—blonde, swooshy hair. Blue eyes. A face that looks like it could have been carved out of marble and displayed along with the rest of the art that littered the city. But the subtleties, that’s what Isak is missing. He has all the pieces, he just can’t put them together.

He’s actually wondering if he’s made up the whole thing—a coping mechanism to deal with the devestaing loneliness. Isak convinces himself this is the only option, really, because it would make sense why no one has said anything.

Also—why has no one said anything? Why do they continue to go down to the girls’ apartment and eat dinner and have the _audacity_ to talk and joke and laugh like nothing happened? Like nothing is missing?

He can tell his sulking is starting to get on everyone’s nerves. He’s a drag in studio and he’s a drag at home and never wants to do anything except be alone. He remembers Jonas cornering him after class the other day, letting him know if he wants to talk, he’s always here to listen.

And that’s his wake up call. Jonas is good at picking up when something is wrong with Isak, but Isak is also good at keeping himself above water. In high school, he mastered the fine art of fake smiles, fake laughs and fake happiness.

Taking Jonas up on that offer is tempting, but Isak doesn’t know where to begin without feeling foolish and… slightly guilty? It’s been just about two months now that Isak and Even have had… whatever this _thing_ is—too weird and secretive to describe as a friendship and not informative or physical enough to know if it’s more than just platonic. How is he supposed to describe that to Jonas?

So this is his train of thought right now. Worried about Even and mad at his friends for not giving a shit and on the verge of giving up. There’s also loneliness, heartbreak, and frustration sewn between it all, going in a cycle and coming back to square one: worried about Even. 

He’s doing nothing—lying on his bed with his open laptop on his chest like he’s pretending to do homework—when Jonas sulks in.

He licks his teeth and Isak knows he’s frustrated—pushing the limit of giving Isak the business.

“What’s your problem?” He demands, the sudden hostility making Isak wince. Usually Jonas is very patient—not today I guess.

“Um,” Isak starts, closing his laptop slowly and sitting up. “Halla to you to.”

“I’m serious,” Jonas starts, pacing back in forth in the room. “You don’t come out with us anymore. Your constant tossing and turning all night is keeping me awake—and not to be rude but you’ve been a real drag in studio, and I know you’re not working on your projects because you just stare at your laptop and never type anything.”

He’s right. 

“Are you homesick?” Jonas is blushing—probably because he really does care and is remorseful for his sudden outburst, knowing Isak probably will shut down after any more yelling.

Homesick. Ha—he wishes. “Nei,” Isak laughs. “I’m not homesick.”

Jonas prods him with a look rather than with words, sitting on the edge of his bed next to him.

“Um,” Isak hesitates, unsure of where to start. He really does want to let it out—to make it real. It’s almost just a figment of his imagination at this point, so if he doesn’t tell Jonas now, he might not even remember it at all. And he’s not trying to do that. He wants to remember—he wants to remember Even forever, a little corner of his heart permanently reserved for him. 

But he also wants to get over him.

“Even hasn’t been over to dinner in awhile.” Isak kicks himself mentally. That was a really lame way to start this.

“I know,” Jonas snorts. “It’s awesome. Now I don’t have to watch Eva drape all over him.”

Well, that flew right over his head. And it also explains why no one has fucking said anything.

“Does she know what happened to him?” Isak sounds on the verge of desperate. He’s been tempted to ask Eva himself, but she’s been looking just as down at Isak these days, and the girls shoo them out of their apartment after dinner much earlier than usual.

He’d feel bad for her if he wasn’t already feeling bad for himself.

Jonas thinks for a moment. “Uh, nei. Or, I don’t know. She hasn’t mentioned him.”

Isak knows this is probably true, but it’s also been obvious Jonas and Eva haven’t really… talked. Last night, dinner consisted mostly of Magnus making Vilde laugh while everyone watched in horrified amazement, and instead of staying and chatting and drinking after, Jonas had hurried back upstairs with Isak.

They meet eyes, and Isak is willing Jonas to read his mind. 

It must have worked, or something on Isak’s face must have given him away because Jonas’s gaze turns wide and his mouth drops with a little smile, like all the pieces finally click. “You like him!”

Hearing it come from someone else makes it feel ten times more real, and Isak can’t help but smile weakly at that. It feels like an actual, tangible thing now. It’s true. It really is true. His heart is broken but it’s true, and someone else knows it, and Isak finally accepts it. “Yeah,” he mouths, the words a ghost as his throat bubbles up with what could be tears or fear or maybe vomit. “But there’s more than that.”

“Woah,” Jonas’s smile gets bigger and he retracts a little. This isn’t really the reaction Isak’s expecting, but it’s better than Jonas yelling at him. “More? Have you been hooking up? That’s hilarious!” He laughs. “Right in front of Eva.”

And that really isn’t the reaction Isak was hoping for, either. Why isn’t anyone else worried? “Nei,” he squeaks. “Nei nei nei. Not that.”

Jonas’s face falls, like he’s bothered all over again Eva might have hooked up with Even. Welcome to Isak’s world. “Oh. Then… what is it?”

Yeah. Oh. “Uh, I’ve seen—been seeing—Even outside of dinner. Like everyday. For the past two months.”

Something clicks in Jonas’s head—the timeline starting to fall together. “Two months?”

“I don’t know,” Isak huffs, shoving his eyes into the balls of his hands. “We met when I was doing my research for an architecture history paper—he just came up to me and started speaking Norwegian.” His smile is wobbly at the memory—eyes bubbling and throat catching with endearment—and he fucking misses it. “And then I bumped into him again. And again. And _again_ at dinner,” he continues. “But I don’t know. I kind of froze and he must have froze, too—because I didn’t really expect to see him—and we just never said anything. And then it kind of turned into this standing date. Or not date, but, yeah. Whatever,” he waves, sniffling his nose.

Jonas looks at him confused.

“We run together. In the mornings,” Isak clarifies.

“So _that’s_ why you’re an early bird now,” Jonas smirks.

“Problem is,” Isak laugh-sulks, “I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks.”

Jonas takes a sharp inhale, then exhales slowly. “Call him?”

Isak laughs at the suggestion. “I don’t have his number,” he admits. “And he has no social media.”

Jonas nods. “Off the grid kind of guy.” 

“I guess.”

They sit there in silence for a moment, and Isak begins to feel foolish—foolish for liking Even. Foolish for letting him get in his head like this. Foolish for being a big fucking mess in front of Jonas, who he respects, and who is somehow always on the other end of Isak’s heartbreak scandals—there to pick up the pieces when Isak gets too emotional.

“But, uh, is he into you?”

This is not the question Isak’s expecting. Jonas is more of a _chase your dreams_ kind of advice guy, but he sounds like he’s turning down a different road. “Um. Maybe? I don’t know or—I can’t tell.” It’s a lot more complicated than that. Sometimes Isak is _so sure_ of it, and other times he comes home from being with Even—kicking himself for thinking anything could have ever been more. It’s a rollercoaster he’s addicted to but badly wants to get off of—the only problem is it’s broken and it won’t stop.

“Listen,” Jonas starts, actually reaching a hand out for Isak and touching his shoulder sympathetically. “I think Mahdi was right—don’t tell him I said that, by the way—but maybe… you know. No feelings.”

“Jonas,” Isak whines. He might as well be completely honest, because he’s beyond the point of no return. “I can’t do no feelings. Not with Even. Not now.” 

There’s a lot he hasn’t told Jonas, but that little confession makes a lot of Isak’s feelings clear—and now Jonas is in big brother mode. “That’s what I’m saying. Maybe this is for the best. The only way to get rid of feelings is to _bam_ —“ Jonas takes his hand off Isak and slashes the air. “Cut all contact.”

This is the second time Isak has heard this advice. He tries not to believe in fate, tries to deny that the universe has it’s own plan regardless of what Isak wants, but the universe is not a physical force that can literally pick him up and control him like a puppet. The universe works through voices. Through feelings. Through signs. Maybe it’s time he listens.

“You’re probably right,” Isak agrees.

“They’re cooking dinner downstairs,” Jonas offers, a bushy eyebrow raised like a comforting prompt, but he reads Isak’s confused face in an instant. “Dude. I came up here to check on you. We’ve been down there for an hour.”

And Isak’s been sulking up in their room for the past three.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He doesn’t know if he’s suppose to feel better or not. He doesn’t.

 

———

 

He can only heed that advice for so long, though. About two days, to be exact. Two days where he convinces himself the universe is on his side. Two days where he takes Eskild’s and Jonas’s advice to heart. Two days where he doesn’t run to the mural stairs. Where he doesn’t take a nighttime walk around Trastevere. Where he doesn’t (i.e.—tries not to and fails miserably) think about Even.

So fuck all the signs the universe is giving him, because it really _didn’t_ listen to him, right? He knows the universe isn’t a fortune teller or a wish granter, but he doesn’t ask for much. (And really, doesn’t _everyone_ ask for happiness? It’s not like this is an out of the box idea here.) 

Isak likes to _test_ the universe, goddamn it—it’s kind of a game now. What will happen if he ignores all the signs? Ignores what he know’s he’s _suppose_ to be doing? He spends a lot of time what seems like praying, but really he’s just screaming into the void—displaying all his problems and asking why things have to be so hard, or what he did in a past life to deserve being put in a body that needs to be fueled by love but getting none in return. While he’s not necessarily at rock bottom, he feels awfully low, and feeling awfully low usually comes with a sense of urgency mixed with a laissez faire attitude. _Let it happen,_ he thinks. _Not like it could get any worse._

That’s his mindset, anyway, when he’s knocking on Eva’s third floor door at midnight. She answers by rubbing sleep out of her eyes with a hesitant Vilde behind her.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to ask her how she feels about Even and if she’s heard from him and then hopefully, if he feels strong enough, spill his guts. It’s a messy train of thought, but he needs to just rip the bandaid off already.

“What do you want?” She yawns.

Isak’s suddenly unsure himself. “Sorry,” he hesitates. “Can we talk alone?” He’s glancing over at Vilde, who seems to have taken the hint anyways, because, without trying to be rude, Isak and Eva are having a conversation in their native language.

Eva’s slipping her shoes on before she can answer. “Roof,” she mumbles, pointing to the stairs lazily.

Which is only one floor above Isak’s, and somehow Eva has a key. Isak isn’t even aware they have access to the roof—but it’s a gorgeous view once they step up there. He can see the Tiber river and Tiber Island, the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere, the lighthouse on top of Colle del Gianicolo—

Wait.

Of all the places he hasn’t checked.

He’s breaking into one of those nervous grins that has no business being there. The kind that make their way onto your face during an argument or after something goes horrifyingly wrong and make you lose all sense of credibility. Because really, he should not be smiling right now. He should be terrified at the possibility—berating himself for not thinking of this sooner.

“Sorry, Eva,” Isak starts, already halfway back to the door after they found a nice spot next to the guard rail. “I have to go.”

“Isak!” She calls after him, her face scrunched and her elbows bent in confusion. “The fuck?”

“Sorry!” He repeats himself, shuffling as fast as he can down the stairs now and not stopping. He’s sprinting out the building. Down the street. His feet have memorized this route, and he doesn’t even think about slowing down until he’s ascending the mural stairs and getting to the top of the hill, a pang in his side from probably a better workout he’s ever gotten. 

His lungs hurt. His legs hurt. His heart hurts. Everything hurts, but he sees him there, sitting on the ledge, legs swinging. And it is the best medicine—he could overdose on it if he’s not careful. 

With a sigh of relief, Isak remembers Even is, without a doubt, a fact. He remembers driving himself insane thinking maybe the whole thing was a figment of his imagination, so starved from loneliness that his brain fabricated a way to cope. 

Without asking for permission, or even hesitating at all, Isak gently sits beside him. There’s an unspoken mutual agreement between them, one that Isak can decipher, and it’s that no words need to be said at all. At least for right now. Silence is fine. It’s always fine. The air that vibrates between them is conversation enough already.

He remembers thinking he’d be angry. Remembers rehearsing the lines in his head—gathering the courage to tell Even that no matter how small, they had a connection. _And yes, Even, you know what kind of connection._ And it can’t be denied, damnit. And you can't just _leave_ me. 

But instead, Isak just feels a wave of relief. Even is here, in person—tangible. It’s impossible to be angry, especially when the moonlight makes his features a midnight blue he’s never seen before.

It’s too personal right now to look at each other, so they just look ahead—and really, can you blame them? Isak ponders if he’ll ever find a more calming spot when he goes back to Oslo. And maybe that’s why this place works so well, especially for this encounter. It makes Isak brave yet rational. It makes Isak feel alive yet at peace. It’s more intimate than being wrapped under the covers—more vulnerable than exposing your naked self.

But something is different. Something is off. There is a silence looming that doesn’t seem forced—it seems like the only option—like Even’s energy only exists in trace amounts in his fingers and toes, being sectioned away slowly as they dangle.

“Isak, how many friends do you have?”

Well, that sure isn’t how Isak expected the ice to break. It actually takes him off guard, because he’s re-rehearing what he’s going to say now that he’s calm—how he’s going to answer questions over and over again in his head. Except, well, the answer to that one. “Um,” he thinks, “I mean, Jonas is my friend. Magnus is my friend. Mahdi is my friend.”

Even nods, like he expects Isak to continue.

“So,” Isak begins again, a hint of doubt in his voice, like he’s not so sure himself. “Three? I guess?”

Isak wants Even to go on, wants Even to be real and here, but exhaustion paints his face—like that one question is enough for a lifetime. Even had to have asked for a reason, and that reason is eating Isak alive. So he does something that he normally doesn’t do in these situations—keeps talking.

“I would rather have a few close friends than many far away friends,” Isak takes a stab in the dark, almost like a prompt for Even.

“Far away friends.” Even looks on the verge of a laugh. “I like that.”

“Yeah,” Isak continues. He can’t help that his lips are starting to turn up at the mere suggestion Even might smile.

“I think the only way to have a true friend is for them to know almost everything,” Even admits. “But it’s also important to keep a little piece to yourself. Even if it’s something stupid and irrelevant.” He might as well have just said a thousand words, because he looks drained.

Their eyes finally meet, and yeah, there’s something missing. Isak just can’t pinpoint what. _Life,_ he thinks, but that seems too dramatic. But it’s something along the lines of life.

“I think all I have now are far away friends,” he continues to Isak’s surprise. 

Isak immediately goes red in the face, because _of course_ Even is his friend. “Four,” Isak corrects him. “I have four friends.” He wants to reach out and grab Even’s hand. It’s just sitting there, perched on the ledge by his thigh, almost begging. But he refrains.

Even scoffs. “I think too much,” he admits. “There are too many… is too much… _stuff,"_ he frantically points at his temple, “up in here. I miss having someone to talk to, because otherwise I’ll just talk to myself. And that’s dangerous.”

“You can talk to me.” It’s almost a beg, rather than an offer. Isak means it. He means it with all his heart.

“There has to be someone out there who knows everything about you,” Even whispers. “Right?” He turns to meet their eyes, if only for a moment, and then looks back out. “I couldn’t imagine someone I call my closest friend not knowing everything about me. But sometimes I think that’s just me. I have this unquenchable urge to just,” he makes a frustrated hand gesture—palms splaying and then squeezing—“connect. With people. But people innately talk. People are bad listeners.”

Isak swallows audibly. “I’ll listen.”

Isak doesn’t think Even ignores him, but he does change the subject. “What makes someone your friend?”

Questions like these are the moments that take acquaintances to friends. Growing up, it’s so easy. You have a friend, a _best_ friend, and all of your hardships just… they grow up with you. Isak thinks of Jonas, and if they’d even be friends at all if they only met at Nissen. Probably not. (Though that thought stings.) But they’ve been through _too much_ together. And your friends get to see that. Jonas gets to see that. 

Now though, that Isak is older, new people come with baggage. And that baggage usually stays locked up tight—but as adults, these fleeting moments (that usually happen after a bottle of whiskey or a traumatic experience or hey, sitting on a ledge at midnight overlooking the most beautiful city on earth) transform friendships. 

You have to take the step. You have to let it out. You have to be vulnerable and not fear rejection. Because what do we have in life, if we don’t have true friends? People to connect with and help us absorb life’s difficulties?

“I think it has less to do with who they are, and more with who you are,” Isak admits. “I mean, of course everyone wants a friend who’s fun. And caring. And loyal. That’s, like, the definition of a friend,” he waves. Isak doesn’t know if he’s ever been this honest in his life. This conversation, which has gone on for maybe two minutes (and is not at all the conversation he thought he’d be having, to be honest), has more depth than anything he’s ever experienced with Julian. “But if you can’t be who you are around them, then what’s the point?”

“Then what’s the point,” Even repeats, leaning back on his hands now while the breeze blows his loose hair back. He’s staring straight out, and Isak so desperately wants to be able to read his mind. Little does he know, Even can barely read his own mind.

And then it occurs to Isak that Even is trying to say something. Trying to muster the courage to _say something._ This whole thing is an attempt to open up, which he so desperately needs right now, if Isak is reading between the lines correctly.

But Isak can see those words stuck behind his lips. They’re almost tangible, like Even is rolling them around in his mouth. Too big and clunky.

Isak’s mouth hangs open for a moment, and he’s looking at Even now. He needs to be brave. He needs to take this first leap—to open up so that Even will, too.

Honestly, he should have done this awhile ago.

“I’m gay,” Isak admits, but he says it with a light smile. Like it was no big deal. Like he wants to move on already. 

Secretly, though? He’s a fucking wreck. His heart is flying and his stomach acid is dissolving all his organs until he literally feels like a thin balloon filled to the breaking point with water. He thought coming out would be easier by now—contrary to what he thought at first, it’s an ongoing process. He never _stops_ coming out, and unfortunately, it’s just as difficult this time around as it was the first. He doesn’t know what would be worse, Even saying something like _I know_ or Even saying nothing at all.

And it’s almost the latter. Even turns to him, looks at him for a long time—at _all_ of him. His eyes stay on Isak’s, but flicker over to his hair. His ears. His neck. His fingers. His shoes. ~~His lips.~~ Because this is all of Isak.

Even might not be saying anything with actual words, but he’s saying something with his eyes. “I’—uh,” he looks down. “I’m bipolar.”

Two thoughts hit Isak at once. The first one, which he feels especially selfish for, is that he is full of self pity. He doesn’t understand why it aches so bad Even almost… brushes aside his coming out. 

Thought number two is that this explains almost everything.

Isak’s aware of what it is. He remembers being there with the boys for Magnus during particularly rough times with his mom—but he definitely doesn’t know the ins and outs. Or how severe Even’s condition is.

And maybe Even has the right idea. Maybe it’s just best to confess and let be—so Isak acknowledges him the same way Even did: with a study and a conversation held entirely through glances.

Isak lets himself look. He looks right into Even’s eyes. He flickers over to his eyebrows and his eyelashes—his hair. The top of his jaw and his temples and his freckles and his throat.

“We still don’t know a lot about each other,” Even admits when Isak’s eyes trace back over to his.

“No, we don’t,” Isak smiles with lowered lids and a gentle nod. “But I’ve done my fair share of trying to figure out what to say and how to say it for a lifetime.”

Even’s fallen face turns into a beam, and there’s a little part of Isak’s heart whispering _you did that._

“I’ll talk your ear off,” Even promises, one eyebrow starting to waggle.

“And I will listen the _shit_ out of you,” Isak nudges, a playful laugh on the last word.

“Okay.” Even’s eyes are coming back to life, the smile reaching them now. “If you need to shut me up, though, feel free.”

Isak thinks of a million ways he could do that.

 

The sun is rising before they agree to part ways and go to class. Isak _should_ skip and go to sleep, but there’s no way in hell he can—not with his mind rushing the way it is. It’s still not what he wants, but damn it if it doesn’t feel like one step closer.

Peeling off from the ledge hurts, not just because sitting on a literal rock all night makes Isak’s ass sore, but because pieces of Isak are now with Even, and when he’s gone, he’s missing them. The only string still joining them together is a promise to pick back up where they left off and meet tomorrow morning like usual, a full twenty-four hours away.

All Isak really has to do now is cross the Tiber river in order to get to class—no more than five minutes. And it dawns on him that five minutes is nowhere near enough time to fabricate a convincing enough lie when the boys inevitably ask him where the fuck he’s been all night. The best he can do is duck into Bar del Cappuccino around the corner and take a few extra minutes ordering a ciambella and a coffee—making sure he’s _just late enough_ to studio so that he has to sneak in and sit in the back but also won’t get in trouble. That’ll save him at least an hour before the professor stops lecturing and they have time to work freely, which is where the boys will surely ambush him.

If anything, they look slightly relieved when Isak slips in, giving them all a nod a few rows back.

Isak comes to the conclusion that playing it cool but being honest (well, partly honest) is his best bet. He hasn’t been paying attention to the professor at all—he sees the blueprints and the notes up on the projector, but his mind has been bouncing back and forth with anxiety for what he’s about to admit and memories of last night—little smiles to himself sprinkling in-between. So, that’s why he’s slightly confused when all he manages to catch are his professor’s last words, “group up!” and everyone’s chairs are screeching as they push back against the drafting tables and find their friends. 

“Spill,” Magnus is the first to arrive, rushing to the back of the room towards Isak and sitting backwards on a chair. He’s got this little knowing smile on his face Isak wants to slap off of him.

Mahdi and Jonas are soon to follow.

Isak takes a nervous breath. Just rip the bandaid off. “I—”

“Dude, we thought you were dead,” Jonas deadpans. “We were out until like three looking for you.”

Well now Isak just feels like shit.

“Sorry,” he fumbles. “I actually ran into Even.” A smile that has no business being there creeps onto his face when he say’s Even’s name, and it gives him all away. At least to Jonas, who’s expression is becoming more and more difficult to read.

“Even!” Magnus beams, oblivious. “Did you ask him where the fuck he’s been?”

 _In bed, probably,_ Isak thinks, but they don’t need to know that about him yet. Instead of answering Magnus’s question, Isak wants to get it over with. “I like him,” he huffs, smashing his eyes shut when he says it so he doesn’t have to see their faces. “Like. Yeah.” Another big sigh as he opens them again. “I like him. A lot. And I would just drop it if I didn’t think there was something going on. I’m not sure what, and fuck it, I might just be crazy, but I like him enough to tell you guys at least.”

They all share a glance, and Mahdi is the first to speak. “You should tell Eva.”

 

At least they’re on the same page there. Isak’s _tried_ to tell Eva, but… more important things got in the way.

He’s standing at her door. “I promise I won’t run away again,” Isak defends before she even has a chance to open it all the way and realize who’s standing in front of her.

Isak’s a little early for dinner that same day, beating the boys who are on grocery duty. He’s holding a bottle of wine (that’s in place of an apology) and rolls his eyes playfully when she takes it from him and pretends to shut the door on him—a smile on her face when she opens it and gestures him inside.

“Are you going to explain yourself?” She asks, uncorking the bottle in the kitchen and pouring two glasses. “You’ve left me hanging for a full twenty hours with no explanation before you darted off.”

“Sorry about that,” he mutters as he takes the glass Eva’s handing him and being ushered out onto the balcony. “This is still important, but it was much more important last night.”

Eva is officially confused, cocking her head to the side playfully and taking a sip of wine, indicating she is out of words and Isak needs to hurry up and explain himself.

“I, uh,” Isak stumbles. “I wanted to ask you about Even.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eva waves, assuming he’s here to make her feel better. “The girls have given me enough advice for a lifetime. I’m over it. If you haven’t noticed, I move on pretty fast,” she winks.

Isak grins sourly, trying to decide how to continue since his original intentions aren’t necessarily how she’s doing. He does care, don’t get him wrong, he’s just used to being in the same boat as Eva (only he’s not so good at moving on). “Yeah,” Isak breathes. “I’ve noticed he hasn’t been at dinner,” he plays down. “So I was just wondering if you’ve talked to him at all.”

“Well,” she blushes. “You saw me. I kissed him before he left the apartment like two weeks ago—and I haven’t seen him since.”

“I like him,” Isak blurts, turning to her. He’s entirely forgotten his wine, a little too on edge to even think about it. “I have for awhile. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s something. I would say, _‘we’ve had a thing’_ but it’s… even more complicated than that. I don’t know what it is, but I want to figure it out.”

Eva looks entirely hurt, but not for the reasons Isak might expect. “Isak—” she starts, her mouth struggling around his name in order to find more words. “If I would have known—” she’s about to utter an apology before Isak cuts her off.

“And I wanted to apologize for not telling you and possibly letting you think he might have returned some feelings when I was pretty sure he was just being friendly. I also wanted to let you know that I saw him. Last night.”

He’s expecting her to tear up, maybe. To be heartbroken. To be something. But she’s not. Instead, she looks serene. “I hope you can work it out,” she manages. She realizes it’s not the comeback he was expecting. “Listen, Isak,” she turns to him. “I think you’re a cool dude. I’m infinitely grateful you and your friends are here. It’s been awesome hanging out and getting to know each other and the fact you’re from my home country is just the cherry on top of it all.” She’s smiling fondly over the railing, taking a sip of wine. “I think you and I would have been great friends in another universe, given we had more time.”

There’s the universe again, trying to tell Isak something.

“People misjudge me a lot,” Eva admits, turning down to look in her glass like it’s the most fascinating thing. “They think I’m a tease. Or a slut. Or easy. But I’m allowed to live my life the way I want to—and so should you, judgements be damned.”

She’s turning up to smile at him kindly, and it’s warm and bright and Isak’s really thankful he’s getting to see this side of her.

“What I’m trying to say,” she huffs. “Is that I’m not upset. Not at all, really. I genuinely hope everything works out for the best.”

He’s barely able to mumble a thank you, but he does, slightly taken aback but in the fondest way possible.

“I would have taken you for a fighter, Isak Valtersen,” she laughs, finishing her wine and snatching Isak’s untouched glass from his hands. “Not a lover.”

 

———

 

Right now it’s the magic hour. The sky is dim and the air is finally cool. Isak and Even’s meeting spot over the last week and a half has changed—no longer the mural stairs (which they still reserve for the morning), but Piazza Navona. (No complaints here—it’s beautiful and Isak will take all the free time with Even he can get.) 

This last week especially has been, just. Unleashing. Isak let’s Even talk—and he learns a lot about him. Mostly how he thinks, which is… perplexing. Isak has a lot of empathy. Not necessarily a lot of sympathy, but definitely a lot of empathy. This is a learned skill, though, because sixteen and seventeen year old Isak had no empathy at all. If it wasn’t for Eskild, well… let’s just say he's learned a lot from Eskild. The way Even thinks, though—Isak’s having a hard time putting himself in those shoes. And he should. And he says this. And Even tells him that’s totally okay—he doesn’t expect anyone to understand.

And Isak tries to give him something back—he’s mentioned his mom and his family life in general. How he moved out at sixteen. How things are still rocky. But mostly he just listens.

He’s actually on his way to meet Even now. There’s a street performer playing the violin on the other end of the piazza, making for quiet, beautiful, background noise. Sant'Agnese in Agone towers behind him, and the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi hums in front of him—the fountain’s rushing water more soothing than any river or beach Isak’s ever listened to.

Even’s perched against the fountain, inking away into his sketchbook. “Do you know the story?” He asks when Isak is close enough, pen lifting and motioning between the fountain and the facade of the church behind him.

For once, Isak does, but he shakes his head playfully because he wants Even to tell him anyways.

“The four river gods,” Even gestures to each sculpture around the obelisk in the middle of the fountain. “In particular, _Rio de la Plata,_ ” his pen is now pointing to the statue directly behind him. All of the sculptures are of men, decorated with animals and plants to symbolize each rivers’ origin. The one behind Even, though, is a little different. This river god is directly facing the church of Sant'Agnese in Agone, and he’s cowering back in what looks like fear, one hand shielding his eyes. “Designed by Bernini.” He’s tapping his pen playfully against his lip now, a cute smile wrapping up over his teeth and making Isak’s tummy do an unnecessary flip. “And St. Agnes,” Even turns back to the church, “right there, that sculpture of her on top,” he’s pointing to it, squinting with a sliver of tongue sticking out. He’s so passionate Isak is endeared beyond belief. “Designed by Borromini.”

Isak’s really bad at keeping his smile down, and Even misreads it as him already knowing the story (which he does), so he starts to pout, which makes Isak smile even _more._ “No! No!” Isak laughs. “Go on! That’s not why I’m smiling.” It’s only half a lie.

Even raises a brow. “Then why are you smiling?”

“You.” It just slips out of him, and he doesn’t pester Even for a verbal reaction because the little lip bite he does before he continues is enough to fuel Isak into next week.

“Anyway,” Even laughs, looking down for a moment and then at Isak before looking back up. “Bernini and Borromini. They were rivals.” He’s waggling his eyebrows. “And the river god is shielding his eyes from how _ugly_ the church is, and St. Agnes up there is gazing off into the distance, like _'what fountain?'"_ He shrugs his shoulders and lowers his brows to mimic the gesture, like he is the sculpture. “It’s a nice story, but unfortunately the fountain was designed a few years before the church, so it’s not true.”

“I don’t think it’s ugly,” Isak frowns up at the church, taking a step towards it.

Even’s face twists into a reaction that seems the better half of entertained. “Oh yeah, Mr. Architect?” he taunts, stepping beside Isak and looking down at him. 

Isak can feel him study his features. “You have to consider the time it was built,” he points out. “I think my favorite thing about it, though, is that a Christmas market is getting ready to set up in front of it, there’s an Irish bar down the street, and a gelato shop is right around the corner.”

Isak likes to pretend Even’s reaction is just bursting with fondness, but he tucks that away for later.

“What!” He badgers with a little shove when Even still hasn’t said anything, just looking at him like he’s halfway crazy. “You have to admit, it’s interesting that you can tell me the story of two rival artists and their works from almost four hundred years ago, yet everyday modern life has built itself up around it.”

“I think that’s what I like best about Rome,” Even hums. “Almost.” Isak doesn’t have time to pester him about that before he interrupts—“so how about that gelato?”

 

They’re sitting on a stone bench—have been for probably the better part of an hour in Piazza Navona, gelato melting because they’re talking too much. They delve into their own little world surrounded by the history of the actual world.

“Tell me about your boyfriend,” Even teases. It sounds like a dare.

Isak scoffs. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” He looks back up to scrutinize Even, playful eyes mimicking a pursed smile. “You know this. Don’t you think I would have talked about him?”

“You’re simply such a catch, I just assumed,” Even hums. “Maybe you just met him three days ago.” 

_Or three months ago,_ Isak thinks.

Even raises his eyebrows and licks a bite of gelato from his spoon.

That’s not a picture Isak wants to paint. Not at all. He barely registers the words—his heart and pants tightening in a confusing mixture. Luckily, his face doesn’t give it away, though. If anything, his expression is a gooey mixture of fond melting into content.

But I guess this is something they haven’t opened up about yet—their love life. (Isak is purposefully avoiding it. The longer he lets himself go without knowing Even’s sexcapades, the longer he can torture himself with hope.) “I’m a hopeless romantic, you know,” Isak confesses, trying to mask the teasing. “If I did, I bet you couldn’t get me to shut up about him.”

“A hopeless romantic,” Even laughs into another bite before locking eyes. “Isak Valtersen.”

There’s a dazed pause where Isak pictures all the different ways he wants Even to keep saying his name mixed with the phrase _hopeless romantic_.

“Tell me about your ex, then,” Even prods, assuming he has one.

Isak thinks. Julian who? He and Even have barely bumped legs and brushed fingers, but everything with Julian pales in comparison to this—this color he finds inside him when he’s with Even. Sometimes he berates himself for falling so hard (and for still having hope), but he can barely remember what life was like without it.

“Mostly physical,” Isak cocks his head to the side, jabbing his tongue into his cheek nervously. It wasn’t a _lie._ He wants to say _it’s nothing like this,_ but just bites his cheek to keep from doing so.

“So… not a hopeless romantic,” Even teases.

“Nei,” Isak half-laughs. He doesn’t really know what else to say. Doesn’t really want to talk about it. Or maybe he’s just too nervous to, because the polite thing now is to return the question to Even, and he’s afraid of the answer.

“You know,” Even starts, shifting his weight so he’s sideways on the bench now, facing Isak’s profile. “I’m a hopeless romantic, too.”

Isak looks up at him with crinkly eyes, like he doesn’t quite believe him. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Even goes on, playing with his spoon, looking down. “I think that’s part of the reason I got so… down… when Eva kissed me. And why I haven’t been back over since.”

Oh. This is serious. Isak promised himself to never ask. He actually deleted it from his memory (partly because it hurts too much). He’s curious, though, he won’t deny that, especially since it seems Even’s less than thrilled about the whole situation.

“It’s all emotional for me,” Even admits. “The outside counts, I guess, but if the inside is beautiful enough, it makes up for everything. I’m not,” he nervous laughs, “ _turned on,_ I guess, by the outside. I can’t do casual sex. Like I literally _cannot_ do it. Physically. I have to know someone—know all of them. I just fall in love with _people_ —”

“Girls?” Wow. Isak’s being really brave here.

“Just people.”

Isak has no idea what that means. His heart is seizing anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you've made it this far just know that I love you and your comments and kudos power me through the day and make me smile ear to ear!)


	4. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter 4.](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/164506592996/boy-with-a-basket-of-fruit-skam-chapter-46)

Things stay mostly the same.

Isak still meets Even every morning at the mural stairs where they attempt to work out (A.k.a. race maybe once and then give up to go get a cappuccino). He meets Even every evening, too—usually at Piazza Navona to eat gelato and admire the bright sky turn into a foggy mixture of orange and purple. He continues to work (admittedly distracted) on his project for studio and he continues to write (admittedly badly) his papers for architecture history. Even sometimes goes with him to his assigned spots and relays pieces of history Isak thinks should count as cheating. (Although, those papers always turn out much better). And lastly—Isak still doesn’t have his number. 

But—oh. Things are also very different.

There’s the glances, for one. The half-hooded kind over relaxed lips that either scream desire or enchantment after Isak cracks a joke or gets too lost in explaining his project or takes a first bite of gelato. Sometimes, though, the glances come when Isak is staring off into space—Even’s eyes burning a hole in his profile. Usually he would brush it off, tell himself that he’s imagining things like he’s imagined with so many straight guys before who would never return his feelings. But the glances linger. Their eye contact stays connected, and it’s purposeful. Sometimes Even will slightly lift his eyebrows. Isak doesn’t know if it’s a taunt or a prompt or a question.

There’s also the touching. It’s a step up from knocking knees under the dinner table, but it’s nowhere near hand-holding level. If anything, they’re normal touches—touches he probably wouldn’t think twice about if they happened with Jonas or Magnus or Mahdi. What sets them apart, though, is the length. And, again, the lingering. A quick comforting hand on the shoulder means nothing, right? But when Even does it, it burns a hole through the fabric of his clothes until his skin is on fire from the sensation. And that’s nothing compared to how it ends—usually with a small squeeze, a slow scratch to the divet where his shoulder meets his neck, and then a long, lingering trail down Isak’s arm. It’s almost as if Even doesn’t let go until he has to.

Isak wishes he could return them, but he refrains. Even know’s he gay—Even can probably see right through to the big fat crush he has on him, because let’s be real—his flushed cheeks and not so graceful attempts at checking Even out aren’t exactly subtle. So that’s why he doesn’t return them. He doesn’t want to be _that guy._

The voice that whispers to Isak, though, the one that tells him _maybe this is for the best_ or _he's not looking at you like that_ now sings a different tune. It’s replacing all the _ifs_ in his head with _whens._

_Not if—but when._

And Isak makes an agreement with himself. A pact, if you will. He let’s himself think these things. He let’s these thoughts keep him up until the wee hours of the morning, a dumb smile plastered on his face the whole time. But only on one condition—

He refuses to make the first move.

_Because not if—but when._

And it’s not a power thing (okay maybe it is just a little bit), per say, it’s just that all the flirting and touching and smiling in the world still can’t convince him that his reality isn’t twisted. That what he sees isn’t what Even sees. 

The hope he’s been trying to suppress isn’t going anywhere. If anything, it’s stretched into long fibers that weave an aching thread from his neurons to his heart cells, patching up the metaphorical wires Isak had cut earlier.

The thing about hope, though, is that when it connects your brain and your heart, there’s no more differentiation between the two. When the heart seizes, the brain complies, and then you’re only left with one answer.

Isak’s accepted his fate by now. If this whole _if_ or _when_ battle he’s been having with himself turns into nothing more than a big misunderstanding, he’s fully prepared and well aware that this will end in heartbreak.

He’s gotten over heartbreak before, though.

That still doesn’t make it suck any less.

And try as he might, Isak’s doomed to a fate controlled by love. He can subdue it all he wants, but it’s a strong force that knocks him off his feet every time. If it were up to him, sure, he might forego love all together and live life like Jonas or Eskild, who, don’t get him wrong, have probably been in love, they’re just much better at moving on.

He thinks about that for awhile. What it might be like to casually sleep around and use people as nothing more than a means to get off. Or what it’s like to ghost someone or even break a few hearts. How other people do it, though, he has no idea.

Because that’s not him, and it’s not up to him. He’s decided long ago that wanting love isn’t a bad thing. Granted, in this day and age Isak thinks no one would do anything for love anymore, but he has faith.

There are other hopeless romantics out there.

He smiles—alarm set for six in the morning, which, admittedly is only a few hours away (and who would have ever thought this would be a regular thing), and thinks of Even. This time, he lets himself.

 

———

 

“Are you going to sleep through your alarm all morning?” Jonas busts through the french doors that lead to their room—Isak’s alarm blaring from his phone under his pillow. Shit. He must have slept through it.

“The market,” is all Isak is able to mumble, his eyes still blurry with sleep as he tries to unlock his phone and turn the alarm off. Why is everything so _loud?_ What he really means is the Porta Portese market—it starts setting up around four in the morning every Sunday outside their building—it’s huge, and also a fight to the death for vendors to get the best spot, which is why everything starts so goddamn early. The vendors also have no basic decency because they set up their tents and roll in their trucks stomping like elephants, as if half the city isn’t trying to fucking sleep. Usually he does sleep through it, but lucky for Isak, he didn’t manage to even feel tired until then. It kept him up until maybe an hour ago, or—shit. An hour before his alarm went off. How long has he been sleeping through it?

“Well, you have a visitor,” Jonas nods towards the kitchen. “Hope you don’t mind… I let him in.”

Jonas doesn’t have to say it’s Even for Isak to know it’s Even. He springs himself out of bed as fast as his tired body will allow, doing a quick check in the mirror by his desk—and fuck. He looks like shit. Hair splaying in fifty different directions, bags under his eyes, and he desperately needs to brush his teeth. 

The best he can do is tame his curls with a snapback and change his clothes, maybe drink the rest of his water on his nightstand so his mouth isn’t so disgusting—he would head straight for the bathroom if it didn’t directly cross paths with the kitchen.

The first word Even says to Isak is, “sorry,” holding out a tiny porcelain cup of espresso for him. The mocha pot is on the stove, indicating he made it, that smug bastard. “You didn’t come find me at the steps this morning, so I decided to come find you.” He’s dressed in his running clothes, opening the french doors to the balcony that leads off the kitchen and waving for Isak to follow. “You’re so lucky—look at the view! Six floors up and you still can’t even see the end of the market, though,” he gestures with his cup down the street where the tents never seem to end. It’s still pretty early—maybe seven in the morning—but a crowd is already forming.

Isak makes a sound that’s suppose to be a snort. “ _Lucky,_ ” he mocks. “Try saying that after you’ve spent the night and have to listen to them set up before the sun rises.” He really didn’t mean for it to come out that way—red rushing to his face immediately and he tries to decide if he should save himself or let it be, hoping it doesn’t give him away as much as he thought.

Luckily, Even doesn’t pester him, just smirks knowingly. It’s still enough to make Isak grimace, though. “How about we go down and check it out?”

Despite the many Sunday’s Isak’s had the chance to, the crowds of people and the endless tents of junk (seriously, some of it is just straight up junk) isn’t really his scene. Sunday’s are usually reserved for sleeping and homework. Even is asking, though, so there’s that. He doesn’t really need more of an offer.

“C’mon,” Even nudges his side with his elbow. “We can make a game out of it.”

“Game?” Isak asks. 

Even thinks, his eyes scrunching and his hair bouncing (under that damn headband) with a little nod. “Cheapest Halloween costume,” he offers.

Isak rolls his eyes. “Halloween was last week.”

“The Italians don’t even celebrate Halloween,” Even smirks. “So we can celebrate it late. No one will know.”

“Hmmm,” Isak ponders. “Okay. What do I get if I win?”

“Woah,” Even jokes. He’s trying to look taken aback but the smile on his face gives him all away. “You want to turn this game into a bet? Okay. Let’s set some rules first.”

“Rules?” Isak cocks his head.

“Yes, _rules!_ " Even demands with a smile. “If this is a bet, there’s got to be rules! The stakes are high, after all. The winner gets a cappuccino.”

“Even,” Isak rolls his eyes. “One cappuccino is like, a euro. Tops. That’s hardly motivation.”

“But you get to bask in my presence,” Even leans his head back loosely and playfully splays his arms like he’s Jesus incarnate. 

“Could you not be pretentious for like, two seconds?” Isak laughs, literally basking in his presence as he speaks. Even is all long arms and legs and closed eyes and Isak’s excuse for not tackling him right here and now is their close proximity to the railing and the likelihood they might fall. At least, that’s what he tells himself. What a hypocrite. “What do you get if you win, then? Unless you’re so self-absorbed you want to go on a coffee date with yourself.”

“Oh?” Even hums, taking a step closer into Isak’s bubble. “It’s a date now?” 

Isak gulps. He’s whispering _yes, please_ to himself in his head, but he doesn’t say anything out loud.

“So, from what I’ve gathered, then,” Even thinks, leaning his elbows on the railing and flushing his side with Isak’s, “is that if you win, you get to go on a date with me, and if I win, I get to go on a date with you?” 

Here’s one of those touches. Isak’s memorized each of them from Even since the _just people_ confession in Piazza Navona two weeks ago. Isak thinks his whole right side might go numb from the tingling.

Even doesn’t give Isak time to answer though, accepting this bet as fact. “Okay,” he starts again, one finger out like he’s counting, followed by another as he lists off the rules. “One article of clothing. One accessory. One extra item of your choosing. Sound fair? Whoever spends the least amount of money wins.”

“Sounds fair,” Isak repeats.

Even’s grin matches the sun. “Great,” he’s sauntering through the doorway with a happy spin, heading for the staircase and letting his arm touch Isak’s side until it’s all the way extended and he no longer can. “I hope you don’t look too dorky in your costume.”

 

They spend about twenty minutes wandering through the market together. It’s packed with junk. It’s crowded. And Isak is almost grumpy, except Even’s hand slinks around his waist or down his back sometimes to drag him this way or that way—keeping him from bumping into strangers or pulling him to follow Even when he sees something particularly cool or strange.

“Are those chandeliers?” Even asks, actually _slinking a finger into one of Isak’s belt loops_ to pull him by the waist of his jeans off the side alley and into the main street of the market. 

Isak’s immediately second guessing everything that has happened up until this point because that was a little too much—his head is going where it shouldn’t and it’s akin to torture, really. He’s looking up at Even like _what the fuck was that?_ but Even is already letting go to examine.

“How in the world do they transport fifty glass chandeliers here in the midst of all this chaos?” Even laughs, gesturing to the tent that’s sparkling inside. “And how do you get it home? Do you just take your gigantic chandelier with you on the tram?”

Isak’s calming down a little from the previous scenario, but his emotions aren’t lessening, they’re just shifting into enamored fondness towards Even’s questionable dorkiness. Only he would think of these things, really. It’s partly why Isak likes him so much.

“Should I get one?” He jokes, stepping inside the tent and motioning for Isak to follow. “I would lose the bet for sure, but I’d be damn fabulous.” He’s turning to the man who probably owns this mobile chandelier shop now, having a fluent conversation in Italian while Isak glances around—it’s awfully pretty in here. The glass is sparkling and the brass is shiny. It’s like they’re in a room made of jewels. 

Isak just examines for a moment. Even’s back is about three fourths of the way to him, but Isak can still make out his profile. His voice is low and charming as he speaks to the man. Isak thinks he could listen forever, even though he has no idea what they're saying. 

“He wouldn’t haggle with me,” Even turns back to Isak after a minute.

Isak shakes from his endeared stupor. “I’ve just realized that this is all very unfair,” he points out with a raised eyebrow. “Because you have the upper hand—you can speak Italian, and therefore haggle, apparently.”

“Oh, do I? That’s good for me, then," Even smirks, taking a step closer. "I really want that date.” As if the outcome of the bet isn’t the same either way. 

There’s a lot of people around. The shop owner who Even was talking to is helping someone else now, a few people poke their heads in, and the part of the tent exposed to the rest of the market is packed shoulder to shoulder with people. Somehow, though, Isak feels strangely alone, like no one’s eyes are on them—even though Isak thinks they’re now standing so close it might be hard to read as platonic. 

“Can we come back here next week?” Even asks, and suddenly he’s wrapping one hand around Isak’s and another around his waist. He’s fucking swaying—to what music, Isak has no idea. “I really want to come back here, to this mysterious, traveling chandelier shop. It’s magical. Don’t you feel magical?”

Isak’s not sure if magical is the right word, but he definitely feels _something._ His heart is pounding and his breath is hitching and he wants to enjoy this moment—because they are _so close_ to each other right now, closer than they’ve ever been—but half of his brain is focused on everyone who can probably see them right now. He doesn’t realize his gaze is frantically searching for any pair of eyes that might be on them, but Even removes his hand from his waist and grabs his chin to turn and look him dead on, as if to say _it’s okay._

Because he’s right. No one is really paying them half a mind.

So Isak relaxes a bit, and Even must be able to feel the tension release from his shoulders because his hand finds it’s way back to Isak’s waist. Isak’s free hand finds Even’s shoulder, and their intertwined fingers give each other a simultaneous squeeze.

At some point, Isak has started to sway, too. His legs feel like they’re made of half-set jello, though, so he’s not really focused on how great of a job he’s really doing. But they’re dancing, I guess, if whatever Isak’s doing is considered dancing. Even tucks his arm out to spin him, and Isak accidentally turns the wrong direction. But they laugh when he does, arms tangling and bending the wrong way before he corrects himself and turns properly right back into position. Even’s telling him which way to place his feet and which way to step and they practice a few moves, here under the chandeliers, but Isak forgets them all only a half second after he learns them. The only thing he can focus on is Even’s laugh. Even’s eyes as they crinkle up when he does. Even’s hands on him. He’s thankful they’re moving so much, because if he were still, Isak might be trembling.

Is it weird that this is all he’s ever really wanted? Not necessarily someone to woo him in the middle of a chandelier tent in a Roman market, but someone he wants to be close with to be their utter self around him. Upon fist glance, you might think Isak is a player. Shallow, even. He puts on his armor back home everyday—hoodie and snapback. He is (or, was) the master of getting girls to like him. He’s sassy and witty and maybe even a little rude. But _this_ right here is the real Isak—he doesn’t want just someone to hook up with or someone to show off. He wants someone like Even. Someone who speaks mostly in questions and is a little aloof and is passionate about art and who can make him swoon in another language—and yes, someone who drags him into a Roman chandelier tent in the middle of a busy market and slow dances with him to invisible music.

Even spins Isak again and lightly dips him—his hat falling off in the process.

 

Isak spends seven euros on a very large white t-shirt, a red infinity scarf, and an actual, live flower crown from a florist made entirely of olive leaves.

“Thought I lost you,” Even comes up behind him, slipping an arm around his waist. Draped over his free arm is what looks like a wedding dress, a wig that might actually be made of gray, human hair, and in his hand are two slices of pizza. “This counts towards my cost,” he shrugs, handing one of the slices to Isak. “But I was hungry, needed to buy one more item—as per the rules—and didn’t need anything else for my costume.”

“Is that—” Isak’s motioning with his hand occupied by the pizza before he takes a bite, “real hair?”

Even takes a closer look, eyes widening in horror, then shrinking again in relief, then widening again. He drops it on the ground quickly, like touching it for another second might infect him. “I think you might be right,” he groans.

“What were you even suppose to be?” Isak asks. Even’s arm is still wrapped around him. He’s careful to not say the wrong thing or move a certain way in fear Even might remove it.

“God, obviously,” Even says sarcastically. He’s got one eyebrow raised and his mouth is hanging open around the last word.

Isak elbows the dress with a questionable head nod.

“All things considered, God is probably a woman, Isak. Let me guess, Julius Caesar?” Even’s pointing between the items Isak’s carrying.

“Yes,” Isak starts, “but don’t dance around the fact that you lost the bet,” he teases.

“Lost?” Even seems less than worried, speaking with a full mouth. “I’ll have you know I spent exactly eight euros on this treasure trove.”

Isak looks down at the wig and laughs. “Not only did you lose _by the rules,_ ” he points out, “because I only spent seven euros, but your costume is a complete disaster and not even usable at this point.” He’s looking up at Even with a cocky smile.

Even’s eyeing him questionably, as if Isak has no sense of taste or tact. “Please,” he starts, “I would have looked ravishing.”

Isak’s just taking it in—this beautiful boy nonchalantly gesturing with his long limbs—one draped lazily around his waist, the other carrying a slice of pizza and a wedding dress. Is this real life? Isak sure hopes so. “You already do.”

It probably sounds sarcastic, given the circumstances, but it’s not. Whether Even knows that or not is entirely out of Isak’s scope.

Is Even blushing? Objectively, yes, but Isak’s interpretations of Even’s feelings are so repressed that Even could say the sky is blue and Isak would question it.

Before he can embarrass himself any further, Isak slowly (and painfully) removes himself from Even. “Well,” he teases, “since you’ve just absolutely _ruined_ everything—” he’s gesturing down to the wig and over to the dress. “You owe me seven euros, one date, and a new plan.”

“Nowhere in the rules does it say that I have to pay you back,” Even defends.

“No, but I’m not celebrating ‘Halloween,’” (he’s using air quotes and rolling his eyes) “dressed up by myself. That doesn’t seem fair, so you should at least pay me back for the costume.”

Even ponders for a moment, bouncing on his heels. “Do I have to pay you back in cash?”

Isak wonders what Even could possibly mean by that, or what he would rather pay Isak back in, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s only seven euros. “Nah,” he agrees with a curt nod. “But what’s the new plan? Where are you taking me?”

Even looks between Isak’s items he picked up at the market, then back up to Isak with a sly smile. “To your death.”

 

The automatic response to that should be a resounding no, maybe even followed by a quick sprint back to his apartment and a vow to never talk to Even again. But here is is, hopping on the next tram with him and getting off one stop before Piazza Venezia—pending death and all.

“Behold,” Even splays his arms out in front of him to what looks like nothing. “Largo di Torre Argentina.” 

They take a few steps closer, and what looks like should be a piazza is actually a sunken excavation site that looks half finished. There’s steps and columns and remains of what looks like four temples. There’s a barricade around all of it, so they can’t walk down.

“They’re kind of hard to see,” Even’s squinting his eyes and pointing to something—to what, Isak can’t find. “But once you see one, you start to see them everywhere.”

Isak’s not even looking anymore. He’s looking at Even. “What?”

“Cats!” Even’s searching, leaning closer over the barricade and pointing again with his long arm. “There’s one. And one over there.”

He’s right—once Isak sees the first one, splayed out in the sun on the steps of the ruins, he starts to see them everywhere. On pillars. In the grass. There’s even one outside the excavation site, lazily walking along the railing across the way. Probably fifty in total. Some have missing legs or missing ears or missing eyes—and they all look pretty mangy.

“For some reason,” Even begins. He just seems to know everything about this city. “When Mussolini decided to rebuild parts of Rome in the 1920’s, they were digging up here, and bam—” he claps his hands together just for the dramatics. “Can’t build over buried ruins, can you? Especially once they found out how important they were. But the stray cats—they just flock here. And it’s kind of an unspoken rule that if you find a stray, you take it here. There are some volunteers that come and feed them and take care of them. But this is their home. The cats of Rome.” He looks especially fond right now—like he wishes he could go down and join them.

“Why is it so important?” Isak asks.

There’s a smile curling up on Even’s face, like he was just waiting for Isak to pick out that one comment sandwiched between his ramblings. Even knew he would, though—Isak’s an architect, after all. Of course he cares more about the ruins than the cats. “Well,” Even sighs dramatically, “that ruin, right here,” he’s pointing to one of the four, “is the infamous Portico of Pompey—”

“Where Julius Caesar was betrayed and killed,” Isak finishes his sentence with a nod. Leave it to Even to bring everything full-circle. Leave it to Isak to be charmed by it.

 

———

 

Isak lies in his bed that night, unable to sleep as usual, but this time—this one time—he doesn’t mind, because he’s replaying the day over and over again in his head, and for the first time ever, can’t find any fault it in. He doesn’t come home with doubt—doubt that Even doesn’t see him the way Isak _knows_ he does. Instead, he comes home with a pending date. 

He’s grinning into his pillow like an idiot, and for the first time, he let’s himself indulge a little. He let’s himself think of Even. Of what could be. 

In the past, every time Even pops into his brain Isak shuts it down. He doesn’t let himself think of Even for too long, because his fantasies start twisting with reality and he’ll soon loose himself trying to distinguish the two. Instead, he’s just been torturing himself with Even’s presence. At least then he won’t have to pretend, and his existence can ground him to reality and make Isak see them for what they are—just friends.

But are they really just friends now? The platonic and romantic lines between them are starting to blur, at least in Isak’s mind. Isak would never drag Jonas into a random slow dance and dip him like they were at a goddamn ball. He would never slink his arm around Magnus’s waist casually, as if it was something friends did all the time. He would never make a bet with Mahdi and make the loser go on a date. But then again, he would never do those things because he was gay and that would just be weird and uncomfortable—because those are his friends.

And Even likes _just people_ (whatever the fuck that means, Isak still hasn’t deciphered it) so maybe he _is_ being romantic? Even seems smart enough to not play games with Isak’s heart, though.

So that really only leaves two options:

1) Even _is_ being romantic. Knowingly. Purposefully.

2) Even’s _not_ smart enough to not play games with Isak’s heart.

Isak only has one option though, now that his brain and heart are connected, so it doesn’t really matter which one it is, because either way it’s going to end in heartbreak—either from Even actually having feelings while they just keep running out of time, or from Even not returning the feelings at all.

And so this is what Isak does. This is what he _always_ does. He thinks himself in a circle all the way back to doubt until he’s lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and asking the universe—yet again—for a sign.

 

———

 

It gives him one.

By mid November, it’s finally cool enough to wear a jacket. Like a _real_ jacket. It’s the first time Isak’s been able to break out his winter clothes from home. It reminds him that he’s running out of time.

And tonight is the first night Isak actually sleeps under his blanket. The open french doors from their bedroom to the balcony are wafting the perfect breeze through, which is why it makes it especially difficult to get up when he hears a light knock on the front door at some hour between the late night and the early morning. 

When he opens it, he’s only half surprised to see Even standing there. He really should have known, because now he’s embarrassed to be in only his boxers. Even doesn’t seem to mind one bit, though—eyes wandering and then giving what looks like an approving nod—hands tucked into his pockets and eyebrows raised over a tight smile that’s growing wider by the second.

“How did you—” Isak manages to croak dryly, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Get through the front door?” Even cuts him off.

“Um, yeah.”

“You act like I’m not the most charming man in existence—someone who can enamor their way in with a few nice words.”

He’s not wrong, and Isak surely doesn’t doubt that he _did_ make it past the front desk with charm alone—although he doesn’t put it past Even to bribe, either. He mentally curses the guard, who, months ago, didn’t let him in because he forgot his ID (even though the guard _admitted_ he _knew_ Isak lived here). What a prick. I guess, though, without him, Isak wouldn’t have bumped into Even that night. And without that, they might not be standing here right now. “Charming, maybe,” Isak’s surprised he’s awake enough to joke. “Egotistical, definitely.”

“Ouch, Isak,” Even’s holding his hand over his heart, his head tipping back and his knees giving a little bounce like he’s physically wounded. “That hurt.”

Isak knows he joking, and he knows Even knows he’s joking, so he doesn’t apologize. “Can I help you?” Isak asks dryly with more than a pinch of sass. He’s draped against the door frame now, blocking Even’s only form of entry with his entire body—all long, bare limbs. He feels oddly confident standing in front of Even almost naked, and it’s probably because Even won’t stop checking him out. All those circuits up and down the mural stairs don’t seem so daunting, anymore. It’s a nice ego boost, he won’t lie.

“I’m here because I owe you a date,” Even says seriously, as if it isn’t who the fuck knows o’clock in the morning. “So you should get dressed.” He takes another lingering look.

“There’s nowhere to get a cappuccino at this ungodly hour—” Isak starts.

“You think I, certified Hopeless Romantic Even Bech Næsheim, would take you, certified Hopeless Romantic Isak Valtersen, on a coffee date?” Even interrupts.

Isak’s mouth is going dry. “It was part of the rules,” he says dumbly, limbs shrinking back to his sides.

“Get dressed,” Even repeats.

Isak obeys, slipping back into his room and quietly throwing on whatever was on the floor and his snapback for good measure to hide the bed head. And, of course, _finally,_ a jacket. “Where are we going?” he asks as they bounce down the stairs and into the lobby, giving the guard a polite salute.

“Villa Borghese,” Even smiles, their feet stepping in time once they hit the sidewalk and the cool night air. “Or, Museo e Galleria Borghese to be more exact. The park isn’t really that fascinating when you can’t see it.” He gestures up to the dark sky as if Isak is oblivious it’s nighttime. 

“You realize the tram isn’t running anymore, right?” Isak asks. “That’s a long ass walk.”

“Fear not,” Even smirks, pulling a set of keys from his pocket and swinging a leg over a baby blue Vespa parked right on the street. “We have a sick ride.”

Isak’s mouth actually drops open a little. “You can’t be serious,” he starts. “This is _so_ cliché—”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Even laughs, patting the back of the seat for Isak to hop on.

Okay, fine, he likes it. And he’s thanking the universe for letting him win the bet because Even is doing a much better job at setting up this date than he ever could. He sits, somewhat reluctantly, hands slinking around Even’s waist when he gets his feet adjusted correctly. And it occurs to him that he’s never touched Even like this before. He’s always been the recipient of Even’s touch, too afraid to move first and ruin everything. His frame is a little smaller under his loose sweater than what Isak expects, and a little softer, too. But he’s _warm_. And he’s _here_. And Isak doesn’t hesitate to hold on tight.

“Shall we take the scenic route?” Even asks over his shoulder, their faces dangerously close. His eyes are so sparkly—there’s a hint of mystery in them.

Isak smiles. “I expect nothing less.”

And off they go. Even doesn’t go too fast, and he takes a few unnecessary turns so they can go over the Ponte Sant'Angelo bridge, which really is very out of the way, but Isak doesn’t mind. He presses his cheek to Even’s back as they cross the river, looking over at Castel Sant'Angelo beautifully lit up in golden light. He feels like he’s in a dramatic play. He wonders if it’s a comedy or a tragedy.

 _Probably both,_ he thinks. That would really just be his luck, to be honest—it would be a tragedy on the inside, a comedy on the outside. Kind of like how Isak has lived his life up until now—masking his feelings and what he really wants from the universe until everything feels like a tight balloon inside him, only to laugh it off and brush it aside in front of his friends. He wonders why _romance_ isn’t included in the listings.

The ride through the actual park up to the museum gallery is a short one, but when they pull up, a man is waiting for them on the front steps. It's a relatively modest building, although large. The center all the way to the top is the most spectacular, decorated with ornate filigree only a shade or two less white than the rest of the façade. It's definitely a Renaissance era piece of architecture, and while Isak much prefers the Baroque style, it's still lavish in the way that it gets your attention without demanding it. Even greets him warmly, and Isak’s a little jealous of the fact he doesn’t know what they’re saying. He turns to unlock the doors, Even guesting for Isak to follow, and Isak realizes this isn’t normal. This isn’t a place normal people get reserved for a whole night. This is a place you get tickets for—during the daytime, probably by waiting in line—like everyone else. But Even isn’t normal, and Isak doesn’t know who he knows or what he did, but this is obviously planned. And probably not within the last twenty-four hours.

It’s dark when they step inside, and the man who lets them in flicks on the light before he steps in front of the doors—guarding them. 

This is by no means an ordinary museum.

Instead, it’s more like a mansion—separate rooms and staircases to other rooms—definitely not an open floor plan, although the rooms are quite large. The floors are made of pink and yellow marble, and the high ceilings are covered with giant murals. There’s not an inch of this place not dripping with art.

“This used to be the home of Cardinal Scipione Borghese,” Even leans in and whispers. “And this is his collection. Just in case you were wondering.” He finishes with a wink and heads into the first room.

Isak knows these sculptures. These paintings. He knows about Bernini’s _Rapto de Proserpina_ and _Apollo and Daphne,_ but he let’s Even whisper about them anyway as they travel from room to room—the emptiness and almost eery quiet making this a rather surreal experience. Definitely not one that could be replicated during the daytime, surrounded by strangers elbowing him out of the way to get a picture on their shitty iPhone 4.

It's almost as if the art is alive at night. The stautes breathing. The eyes of the portraits following him.

This doesn’t feel like the kind of date where they need to be stuck together, though, or even say anything for that matter. Actually, it feels more natural to let the art draw Isak in, whether that leads towards Even or not. Maybe that was Even’s intention, because he surely hasn’t come looking for him. In fact, Isak doesn’t even know where Even is at this point—as he’s wandered from room to room, and it’s probably been a good thirty minutes since he last saw him. It should probably be a little creepy—somewhat alone in a mansion turned museum at night. The only sounds keeping him company are his footsteps echoing off the high ceilings and his own breathing. Come to think of it, Even could have bribed a locksmith to let them in, and the cops are on their way right as he speaks and Isak will spend the rest of his life in Italian jail. Somehow, though, he’s not worried. He feels oddly at peace.

Maybe it has to do with the painting he’s been plastered in front of, trying to understand for the past fifteen minutes.

“You know,” a familiar voice says behind him. It’s Even. He’s whispering—just standing in the middle of the room now, a good twenty feet away from Isak who realizes he’s probably a little too close to the art. But it’s so quiet Isak can hear him plain as day. “Without Caravaggio, we might not know what fruits and vegetables looked like before humans genetically modified them for mass consumption. His paintings are so realistic and detailed, scientists can actually pinpoint what diseases the plant matter in his paintings had.”

Isak realizes he’s talking specifically about the painting he’s transfixed on, which surprises him, because the focal point of the piece is not necessarily the basket of fruit, but the boy holding it. It’s all that’s in the painting, really. There’s a dark background, and in the middle is the top half of a young man. He’s got wild, dark hair, olive skin, and his expression—if Isak is going to put this lightly—looks like he was just freshly fucked. No lie. He’s holding a basket of fruit, wild leaves splaying everywhere, and Even is talking about the one leaf hanging off—in the bottom right corner. It’s diseased—almost dead.

Even is beside him now—when he got there, Isak has no idea. 

“Did you know in his entire career he did not paint a single female nude?” Even prompts. “That’s pretty unheard of for an artist during his time.”

Isak shakes his head, still transfixed on the painting.

“Instead,” Even laughs, gesturing to the art, “his works often featured ‘full-lipped, languorous boys who seemed to solicit their onlooker with their offers of fruit, wine, flowers—and themselves,’” Even quotes with a flowery laugh probably straight from an art history book he’s memorized cover to cover, turning to Isak and waggling his eyebrows.

Isak’s not really sure what to make of this—that Caravaggio was gay? He’s not sure if Even is trying to relate to him or trying to tell him something. Whatever it is, his heart is beating faster now for seemingly no reason, and it’s so quiet in here he’s afraid Even can hear it.

“It’s speculated he had men and women lovers,” Even continues, looking down now in a sort of nervousness Isak has never seen before, his fingers skirting along Isak’s side as his eyes follow. “Isak—” his train of thought seems interrupted, and his fingers freeze on Isak’s waist. “You are glaringly oblivious and it’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I don’t want to lead you on, because so have I,” he finishes, bringing it full-circle.

Isak’s not looking at him when he says it, but he needed to hear it. He needed it to be real. It doesn’t matter how many times Even winks at him or slides his hand around him or how many “dates” they go on. Isak needed _every part_ of it to be real—for that confirmation. _Just people_ makes a whole lot more sense now.

He gulps, his attention beholden with the painting in front of them, and damn it if he’s going to waste this opportunity. So without so much as a glance back at Even, Isak closes the distance in a moment of sheer bravery—something on the verge of fearlessness. His hands are cupping Even’s warm cheeks before their lips meet—his eyes staying open for just one second as he tries to memorize every detail of Even’s reaction before he smashes them shut and gives in to the senses that heighten due to his lack of vision. He hears his own heartbeat franticly echoing in his ears. He can smell Even’s face wash. His skin feels soft over hard features. His lips taste like sweet sin. But it’s all bittersweet unless Even gives in—Isak’s praying for him to give in.

It takes about two whole seconds before one of Even’s hands are on his jaw and the other is tangled in his hair at the nape of his neck—and those two seconds feel like a torturously long time in limbo. So Isak finally releases the breath he’s been holding through his nose in relief when he feels the contact return ten fold—Even pulling him closer by the back of his neck. Even sliding his lips against his. Isak can feel him smiling everywhere now—he feels Even’s lips thin when his mouth stretches wide. He feels Even’s cheeks tighten and rise under his hands. He can’t help but do the same.

Isak’s melting, and they both smile into the kiss until their grins become so wide they can’t even pucker their lips anymore, giggling into each other’s mouths instead and attempting to part with a few pecks—no one wanting to let go just yet.

This rollercoaster Isak’s on has more drops and payoffs than he’s imagined, and he’s suddenly less unsure of how bad he wants to get off. He thinks he might be able to hold on for a littler longer, the swoop of the drop over now as he’s easy sailing.

“I’ve thought about that every day since I’ve met you,” Isak feels brave enough to admit, but not quite brave enough to look into Even’s eyes—his smile nowhere near fading.

“You have no idea,” Even mumbles over one more peck—slow and sticky and a little too short for Isak’s liking.

It’s weird how that one, first kiss kicks down the door between _are we ever going to kiss?_ and _let me kiss you forever._ But it does, and now there’s nothing standing in the way—no fear. No misunderstanding. No hesitation. No frustration. The question _will it happen again?_ isn’t even an afterthought. Instead, it’s replaced with comfort—comfort to press their lips together again unprompted, no need to ask. No need to be nervous. It’s a sure thing now.

And it feels like something close to heaven.


	5. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter 5.](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/164619233921/boy-with-a-basket-of-fruit-skam-chapter-56)

Isak’s still a little pissed off at the universe. 

Of course it decides to collide Isak and Even together _right_ when Isak needs to kick his ass in gear and finish his project. For the most part, he’s been pretty good about it. His ethnographic study is complete in a nice, filed report. His sketches and blueprints are neatly tucked away in a process book for safe keeping. His model is actually starting to come together—he’s decided to design a museum (for _other_ reasons, okay? There’s no symbolism to see here. Nope, not for Isak), because, as it turns out, museums (which are usually repurposed ruins) when built anew, don’t have to conform as much to Rome’s city style guide. And it’s not that Isak doesn’t like the way Rome looks—because he loves it. And after all this time, it will always have a special place in his heart. No—Isak wants to mix the old and the new together. He wants to build something truly unique. He’s actually been more productive now than ever, and it totally doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that he rewards himself by leaving studio at night to go see Even. Not at all.

If he can just power through this last week and turn in his project it’s easy sailing from here on out. All he has to worry about, then, are his finals for architecture history and Italian—which should be a breeze—and the reception where they show off all their hard work for the semester. They’ve got another whole week after that until they’ve got to be out of the apartment and then he’s headed back home.

Home.

That’s another reason Isak is still bitter at the universe. It’s taking him home, now, and leaving Even here. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, except for the fact that they haven’t talked about it yet. About what any of this means or what any of this _is._ Isak doesn’t necessarily want to fling himself at Even and tell him he’d wait for him until the end of time (even though that is 100% true), but he has this sickness in his stomach that’s telling him if he isn’t honest with Even about his feelings before he leaves, they might part ways not saying anything at all. And the last thing Isak wants this to turn into is a fling.

“We’re actually going out to dinner later,” Jonas nudges Isak’s shoulder. They’re all at studio as the evening turns to night—along with what feels like half the class—attempting to finish their projects. “Kind of as a goodbye, since the girls are leaving in a few days.”

“Can’t,” Isak deadpans, calling over his shoulder as he hooks up his laptop to the laster cutter. “Already got plans.”

“With Even?” Magnus looks up beaming.

Isak hears Jonas snicker from behind him. “How’s uh… how’s that going?” He laughs. It sounds more like a joke than a genuine question.

Point number three why Isak is still ticked off at the universe. It gives him what he wants, but at the expense of ignoring his friend’s advice like an asshole. He starts to wonder if maybe the universe pulled him in the wrong direction—this would have been a hell of a lot easier, after all, if Isak _did_ just listen to Eskild and Jonas and _bam_ —cut all contact, or headed Mahdi’s advice and just… turned off his feelings. He would have been able to skip over the hard part, too, where he deletes Even from his social media and contacts because, hello, he still doesn’t have it. It feels like a test, where maybe he didn’t choose the right answer. But don’t get him wrong, this isn’t the first time these thoughts have crossed his mind in the past week, especially as his impending departure draws near—but every time Isak sees Even, all worry evaporates. He doesn’t question if he made the right choice or failed some imaginary test from the universe, because Even makes him feel something bigger.

“It’s going…” Isak lingers. Ever since he told the boys that yes, him and Even have _finally_ kissed, they’ve (well, Magnus especially) been pestering him on whether or not they’ve had sex—because while Isak said he _liked_ Even, he didn’t delve into too much detail about exactly how much. So the prize, in the end—in the boys’ eyes—is sex. And whether or not Isak got laid, and _no,_ okay, he hasn’t, but he wouldn’t trade the experience so far for anything.

And it’s not like he _doesn’t want to_ , okay? It’s not like he hasn’t been thinking about it non stop—especially now, tonight, on Friday, when he has plans to go see Even and probably no plans to return until the morning. But part of Isak is frightened. Even is hard to read, and while Isak is almost sure Even isn’t just using him to get it in, a little part of him worries that once the deed is done the magic will be lost. And that will have been all this is—a drawn out, high-intensity, sexually-frustrating game that can be boiled down to and looked back on as _that one time I was studying abroad and met this guy…_

Isak doesn’t want to be that to Even. Isak doesn’t want Even to be that to him.

“Why?” Isak snarks. “Jealous?”

Jonas scowls a little, and Isak doesn’t really mean to hit him where it hurts, but this rollercoaster he’s been on has been exhausting. He just wants someone to be happy for him, damn it.

“No, see, I’m _glad_ the universe fucked up whatever was between Eva and me,” Jonas huffs with what sounds like superiority. Isak doesn’t have to say Eva’s name for Jonas to know what that stab meant. “Because now I get to go home, chill, and not worry about it.”

Ah. So Jonas knows about the universe and it’s infinite fuckery, too.

“No feelings,” Mahdi finishes, giving Jonas a high five.

Right. No feelings. Isak’s never been very good at that.

 

 

About an hour later, Jonas is dragging a confused looking Even through the studio doors.

Where Jonas found him, Isak has no idea. It doesn’t really surprise him, though, because Even seems like an easy guy to find. Isak’s been finding him all over for months.

Isak’s abandoned his project at this point. His model is sitting in front of him, about three fourths of the way done and taking up an entire table—mostly due to the mess. That’s why he’s procrastinating, really. He doesn’t want to clean it up—scraps from the laser cutter and pieces he wasn’t careful enough with so they broke. He’s also got a stack of sketches and notes he has to organize in his process book. His brain shut off awhile ago, so he’s fiddling around on his laptop and doing some house keeping instead.

Like buying his plane ticket back home.

Confused though he is, Even smiles when he sees Isak.

“If you’re not going out with us because you’d rather hang out with him, then he’s coming with,” Jonas demands of Isak, looking up at Even helplessly like he hopes he agrees to the plans he hasn’t even told him about yet. “Okay?”

Isak suddenly feels pretty terrible. He doesn’t want to ditch his friends, he really doesn’t, but he also feels like he’s on borrowed time.

“Sure,” Even agrees all too politely with one of those hair bouncing head bobs, plopping in a seat next to Isak and taking in the mess with an approving nod. He’s got that special talent where he just blends in with his surroundings. Not in a _you don’t notice him_ kind of way, because Even is definitely a guy you notice, but in an _ah, there he is,_ kind of way. He just belongs everywhere—effortlessly. He’s never out of place. Maybe that’s why he’s so easy for Isak to find. “This looks cool—” he starts, reaching for Isak’s project.

Isak swats his hand away. “If you break it, I swear to god, Even—”

“If I knew you were _this_ sassy when you got comfortable with someone—”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Jonas mumbles in what is probably endearment, but it sounds a little annoyed. He’s had one eye on them this whole time.

“Is that true, Isak? Have I not seen anything yet?” There’s a weird subtlety to what Even’s saying, like he’s really asking something else, and it makes Isak grow hot in the face.

People close enough to hear them must have picked up on it too, because suddenly everyone is back to work—paying them no mind.

Good. That’s the way Isak likes it, even if a little awkwardness follows.

“What, uh—” Even taps Isak’s laptop, changing the subject with a reddening face. They’re used to being alone. “What are you doing?”

_Oh, you know, just buying my plane ticket back home in a few weeks—2,500km away. Away from you. I want to spend all my time kissing you but I also want to tell you how I really feel—there’s not enough time for everything I want to do with you, really. Because who knows what we are or what this is—but whatever this is—I want it to last. And I feel like this CAN last—but I’m leaving. And you’re staying. That’s what I’m doing._

That’s what Isak thinks. “Buying my return flight back to Oslo,” is what Isak says.

Even nods his head a little solemnly—eyes glazing over like he’s thinking. “When is that, exactly?”

“I have to be out of my apartment by the 23rd,” Isak clicks on the date and mouses over to confirm the flight. “So—the 23rd.”

He could leave earlier, if he wants. He has a whole week after classes end to be out—but unlike his classmates, who are homesick and yearning to see their families, Isak has a reason to stay.

Before he can click on anything, though, Even is scooting Isak away with a cute little hip bump, tongue poking the side of his cheek to hide his ridiculous smile, and taking Isak’s laptop. With a few extra clicks, he’s turning the screen back around to face Isak with a confirmed flight—for the 27th.

“Spend Christmas with me.” It’s not a question or a demand. It’s simply a fact.

Isak’s heart is frozen with fondness. He can’t really do much else besides gape wide-eyed up at Even, who’s smile is soft and knowing. It’s a bold move—he’ll give him that.

“I’m serious,” Even starts laughing, gesturing back to the laptop. “You can stay with me and my host family.”

“Is that okay?” Isak whispers, like he still can’t quite believe it.

Even’s face scrunches into a knowing smile, and he leans in like it’s a secret. “I may have already asked them.”

 

 

Going out to dinner in Italy is actually a form of torture when you’re in a hurry, because everything takes so damn long. It’s a good thing, usually, because you can enjoy your time and eat properly—but not right now, because all Isak can think about is kissing Even silly. 

Like old times, they’re sitting across from each other at dinner—stealing glances and bumping knees. They’re not anywhere fancy by any means, mostly because they’re all broke by this point, but everyone is probably four glasses of wine deep and talking over each other about what the plan is after this. A bar? Dancing? More drinking, obviously. It’s nice, actually—he’s glad Jonas drug him out—nowhere near as awkward as Isak feared. Is he really surprised, though? Even fits right back in like nothing happened—catching up with the girls and cracking jokes with the boys right where they had left off before. He’s that kind of guy, though. Even can charm his way in or out of anything.

“Really?” Even asks when their food arrives. “Mussels?”

“I’ve never tried them,” Isak defends, scooting one over with his fork to hide it in his spaghetti. It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay? “Don’t make fun of me for being adventurous.” He forks it open and pops it into his mouth in defiance, grinning at Even impishly the whole time. It’s actually not bad. He eats another. “You know… when in Rome,” he waves.

Even smiles sourly at him, like he’s lost his damn mind. “You’re not allowed to kiss me later,” he teases, “with your gross mussel breath.” But Isak knows that’s not true. 

One by one, everyone’s eyes linger over to them with bemused expressions and Isak’s face turns a beet red. He’s not sure what would be worse, taking another bite to insinuate the truth of the statement or to defend his honor.

Luckily, like a goddamn hero, Sana breaks the silence.

“So, Even,” she starts, covering her mouth with a bite full of gnocchi. “What’s the plan? Aren’t you graduating in the spring?”

Okay, maybe she’s not a hero, because Isak’s shooting her a death glare. He doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of his friends, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation at all, to be honest. He’s done a good job living in his bubble—he wants to keep it that way. The one thought he’s been actually good at suppressing is the chance that when Even does graduate, even if that be five months from now, there’s no guarantee he’s coming back to Oslo. He’s spent the last five years in the states, after all. This thought (fantasy, really) that Even might come home in May is what gives Isak hope. Isak can do five months. Isak can do five months of long distance, he knows he can, but he can’t hold on to Even when the separation is indefinite. The heartbreaking thing about it, too, is that Isak has very little self control when it comes to Even. He’d chase after him every day if he had to, when really, the best way to get over him would be—

—to cut all contact. Isak sometimes hates how right Jonas is.

He also can’t help but think the universe is coming back to haunt him, whispering _I told you so_ in his ear.

So—in a matter of mere weeks, Isak’s either going to be waiting (happily, patiently, hopefully) for Even to come home, or he’s going to force himself to never talk to him again in the hopes the heartbreak won’t last as long.

Another reason he doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of his friends is that he doesn’t want Even to be careful with his words. If this has to happen, Isak wants it to happen one on one.

How is he suppose to bring it up, though? _Hi, Even. I am madly in love with you and I can’t bear parting ways in a matter of mere weeks without knowing your plans, and, more importantly, where I fit into them._ Yeah, that sure is smooth.

“Yep,” Even nods with his answer to Sana, “after you all _leave_ me,” he fake frowns and they all giggle. “I’ve got a few months left here to finish up my thesis and my Italian requirements. Then it’s back to the states to graduate.”

Isak’s stomach is sinking down to his feet.

“You’re not going back home?” This time the question comes from Eva.

Even actually ponders, and suddenly Isak’s organs feel like they’re rebuilding themselves. Even obviously wants to say something—wondering if now is the right time. He looks at Isak, and suddenly, it seems like the conversation is only for them.

“I want to,” he admits. He’s looking right at Isak. “I haven’t been back home in a very long time. I miss my family, and I miss my other friends. I really could just get my diploma mailed to me—it would save me an expensive plane ticket and an eleven hour flight, but—” he freezes.

Even’s face is apologetic, and Isak wishes it weren’t.

“But…” Magnus trails, absolutely oblivious—a curling hand running in circles and a gaped expression that gestures him to go on.

“But,” Even begins again, “if I go home, that’s that. I want to work on films, and the possibilities in the U.S. outweigh what I have the option to do in Norway, so… yeah. I have a much better chance of getting a job in the states and extending my visa if I’m actually _in_ the states.”

Even’s casting Isak another sorry frown followed by a shoulder slump, like he really doesn’t want to do this here but also doesn’t want to be rude.

It’s fine. Isak’s done a really great job at bracing himself for this. The only thing left is the pain, followed by a long string of nasty words at the universe for plopping Even in front of him, not giving him the courage to move things along quicker, and then taking him away. Maybe it’s for the best he hears Even’s plans now, in front of everyone—it gives Even an excuse to not sugarcoat anything and it gives Isak an excuse not to cry.

So yeah. This is for the best. Isak can pretend it never happened and go right back to absorbing every moment Even will give him. He can be in denial all the way up until he gets on the plane back to Oslo. He can be in denial when he gets home, too. He’ll be in denial for a long time, actually—anything to mask the thought he isn’t good enough for Even to follow.

 

 

They’ve managed to break away from everyone on their way to another bar. The third one? The fourth one?

Isak doesn’t remember, as he is pleasantly tipsy. It fogs his brain enough for him to forget the conversation from earlier and the dejected feelings that followed.

Even, who managed to finish one whole beer, is laughing at him ramble and pulling his hand to balance him when he sways. No one’s mentioned where they’re headed, but if the Altare della Patria lit up and looming before them is any indication, they’re on their way to Even’s. This was the original plan, before Jonas intervened and forced Isak to have a good time with everyone, so they’re only running a few hours behind schedule. Not like there really was a schedule, though. There wasn’t really a plan, either. The “plan” was to meet Even in Piazza Navona like always—wandering the streets until early morning and Isak may or may not have tried to lead him one way or another—to either his apartment or Even’s, where he could properly kiss him—preferably pressed into a bed.

There’s a giant Christmas tree in the middle of Piazza Venezia, probably the biggest Isak’s ever seen—can trees even grow that tall? It’s lit head to toe with small white lights, and Isak thinks they must have had to do it with a crane. 

“When did this get here?” Isak asks, stopping Even in his tracks when their joined hands tug at the strain and loop him back around.

“They must have just put it up,” Even muses, rubbing the back of Isak’s hand with his thumb and looking down at him as if the view in front of them isn’t noteworthy at all.

He takes it in for a minute. The cool night air—comfortable with just a jacket. Midnight in November in Oslo could very well put him into hypothermia. Instead, though, the air has a thickness here—like a blanket. He cursed it in the summer, but now it’s like a blessing. He listens to the cabs and the busses and the tram roll by—to all the people speaking in a language he cannot understand but thinks maybe it’s more beautiful that way. He looks at the Christmas tree in Piazza Venezia, perfectly symmetrical in front of the Altare della Patria. And if that isn’t a view enough in itself, the Colosseum has a yellow glow down Via dei Fori Imperiali to their left and the Campidoglio looms at the top of the staircase to their right. And he would feel the most connected to the earth he’s ever felt, probably, if the boy beside him, holding his hand, wasn’t doomed to be a memory. It’s the most painful thing he’s ever had to do, really—enjoy holding on the best he can when the letting go is inevitable. It’s that point on a rollercoaster where it’s dropping—dropping with such force that your hands are forced in the air. Forced to let go and let the fear and excitement of doing so consume you.

“I’m going to miss this,” Isak admits, and it’s just vague enough that he could be talking about either Rome in general or standing here next to Even. In reality, it’s a combination of the two that can’t be replicated anywhere else. It’s what his heart needs, though. His heart needs to say something, torn between spilling his guts or sewing them shut to just enjoy what he’s got.

“I’m going to miss this, too,” Even sighs, giving Isak’s hand a long, hard squeeze. This confession is not as vague.

They just look for several moments. In front of them. Around them. At each other.

Even’s tugging at his hand and nodding his head behind them in the direction of Via del Corso. And although Isak thinks he could stay standing right here, forever and ever, he can’t deny the pull.

A rock settles in his stomach out of nervousness. Besides their second encounter, when Isak spent the night on Even’s balcony, he hasn’t stepped foot in Even’s apartment since. It dawns on him that he’s probably going to see Even’s bedroom. They’re probably going to lay in his bed. Isak squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of what else they might do, trying to calm himself. Thinking about it and actually moving one foot in front of the other on the _way to actually do it_ are two totally different things.

But—this is nice, Isak thinks. It’s nice. It’s nothing more than nice and he doesn’t have to think about anything not nice if he doesn’t want to. He’s happy to not think about anything at all, really, because that’s how it usually goes when Even is kissing him.

Which is what’s happening right now. They find themselves almost jogging by the time they get to Via del Corso, rushing up the stairs to Even’s host home where they may have unashamedly flew past Even’s host parents (without even saying hi—and fuck—Isak’s suppose to stay here for a whole week soon and now he’s going to be that guy) on their way to his bedroom.

Isak doesn’t even have a second to see it. There’s a bed—and a dresser, maybe, off to the right—and like seemingly every bedroom in Italy there’s a balcony. But he doesn’t have time to remember the details before Even reaches around to shut the door behind him and press him right into it after it clicks closed.

Kissing Even—every kiss (and they’ve probably shared a hundred of all kinds—long, open mouthed ones, quick pecks, slow-lipped ones they smile into)—is an ethereal experience. Isak leaves his body for a moment each time, looking back down on himself with a content sigh before he dives right back in to his own body and let’s every cell of his skin flush at the sensation.

Who knew kissing could feel this good.

This one right now, though. Oh—this one right now is especially good. 

While Even has been over to Isak’s apartment a few times in the last few weeks, their tradition of meeting at the mural steps in the morning and at Piazza Navona in the evening have stood true. And that’s where most of their kisses happen. They’ve swapped working out with making out and they’ve swapped eating gelato for eating each other’s faces. It still has to be somewhat reserved, though, as they are in public—not free from the judgmental eye.

Now, though, they are truly alone—nothing needs to be reserved, and Isak is reminded of that fact when Even parts his lips and slips his tongue into Isak’s mouth. For a long time. Longer than ever before. And the sensation of it is a rush to the head he’s never experienced because it’s always been cut short. But it’s building now—his face is getting hot and his brain is getting fuzzy and he’s subconsciously pulling Even in by the hips so they can rock them together. Little noises escape him—little noises he doesn’t even know he’s making until he feels Even’s lips turn up with a smile against his. But he has no time for that. This is _serious_ okay? Even’s warm hands find their way under Isak’s shirt to grip his sides softly, and the universe is painting little pictures—swirly pictures dotted with stars like the milky way on the back of his eyelids and if Isak isn’t careful he’s going to pass out from lack of blood flow to his brain.

He still hasn’t been able to open his eyes. He’s being moved—guided—away from the door. He lands on something soft—pressed into Even’s duvet and he doesn’t even know what color it is.

Without breaking the kiss, he props himself up on his elbows—leaning back comfortably with one leg bent as Even lays on his side next to him—one arm wrapped desperately around his waist.

 _It’s nice,_ Isak thinks.

_It’s really, really nice._

Isak’s doing something a little brave now. He’s lifting one arm to reach across himself and pull Even in the right direction—right on top of him. With a happy hum that vibrates against his lips, Even obliges—cupping Isak’s face like he’s holding on for dear life and kissing him desperately yet gently as his legs find a comfortable place around his waist.

Kissing Even for this long is dangerous, because now it’s not enough. His hands are on Isak’s bare skin again—his shirt pushed up all the way to his chest and Even’s fingertips on his sides and on his stomach feel like fire. Isak moves hesitantly, because the way he’s touching Even is saying a lot more (and he’s wanting it to say even more than that). His hands are gripping Even’s legs, moving up slightly to his hips and he wants to reach around and pull him closer by the back of his thighs—so he does.

Isak needs to breathe, though, his head is spinning from lack of oxygen so he turns it to the side and let’s Even kiss his neck—little bites in between while Isak tries to subtly get some friction by rocking his hips up. It’s not enough but it’s something, and at the sudden move Even finally makes a sound. It’s a quiet one—just a low and breathy gasp—but the sound of it alone eggs Isak on like a challenge for him to make another.

This time, when he does, it happens right as Isak slides his hand from Even’s thigh to the back of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. And it just happens—Even’s stilted moan right into Isak’s mouth.

Isak bites down on Even’s bottom lip at the sound of it, afraid he might make a noise that sounds far too desperate if he doesn’t.

“Clothes?” Even asks, kissing the side of Isak’s mouth now while he suggestively tugs his shirt up the rest of the way.

Isak can only nod in stunned obligation and sit up slightly to let Even pull his shirt off, pulling his own off soon after.

Even wastes no time unbuttoning Isak’s jeans, pulling them down and letting Isak struggle to get his feet out of them properly. While he does, Even stands and works on his own. It’s only a second, and then they’re flushed back together in bed—but now it’s so, so different. Because every inch of their skin is fire to the touch and Isak’s burning—unable to focus on everything all at once. He can only do it in chunks, and, admittedly, the first thing he feels is their legs wrapped together and their hips pressed into each other—obviously ready to go.

But there’s that voice in the back of his head again. It’s so cruel, really, whispering _this is it. This is the goodbye_ right through his brain while he’s kissing Even for dear life. And he knows it’s right. He wants to give in so badly—but the fear—the fear of being tossed aside coupled with the confirmation that not only is Isak headed for home soon, Even’s not following.

This really will make the heartbreak worse.

“Wait—” Isak pants, breaking away when Even finally slips a hand beneath his boxers. “Wait.” Something bubbles up in his chest, and he can feel it make way for his throat but he shuts it down quickly. He is _not_ going to cry right now, damn it.

And he doesn’t, not right now at least, but he knows he will at some point. Every time he chokes down the feeling it only harbors in his heart, and before too long, there won’t be any room left before the only way out is through.

This feeling is probably peaking now, because Isak’s on the second high of today—a debilitating low in-between them. How can he be happy about spending a whole week around Christmas with Even, and how can he be excited now—nothing but the taste of his lips everywhere—when really all they’re doing is masking the fact that he is, without a doubt, inevitably leaving forever and leaving Isak halfway around the world after graduation.

“What’s wrong—” Even starts, jerking his hand up immediately to rest on Isak’s cheek. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Isak huffs, looking down and sitting up. “Yeah.” He’s really not, and he thinks Even can tell that he’s not. Isak’s eyes are closed and he’s trying to calm down his heart rate, taking a few big breaths while Even’s other hand comes up to cradle his face. “Can we just—can we just lay here?”

Even places a kiss to Isak’s forehead and scoots him down gently, following suit and leaning into Isak’s side—his head on his chest. Isak plays with his loose waves—longer at the top than on the sides—until it’s no longer styled, but rather a messy tangle of blonde. Even doesn’t seem to mind.

Even’s voice is quiet—arms wrapped around Isak like he’s a lifeline. “We can lay here forever.”

 

———

 

The rest of the week is a race to finish his project mixed with a lot of time spent studying. He’s actually thankful for his previous procrastination, because all of this work is a nice distraction from the conversation they had during dinner. In fact, he’s thought about it so little he’s almost starting to forget what Even said. (That’s dangerous, though, because Isak’s spiraling into a deep pit of denial.) If he just lets himself think Even is his all the way until he gets on the plane (fuck—lands in Oslo, even), this last week with him won’t be tainted with an impending broken heart.

And during this week he doesn’t see Even as much as he’d like, but the thought of a whole week plus a few extra days with nothing to do but be in his presence is more than motivation. He’s actually at the finish line right now.

They’re pre-gaming in the apartment because they’ll be damned if they go to this reception sober.

It’s a casual thing. There will probably be drinks there, to be honest, but there will also be professors and invited guests and professors from other universities so showing up awkwardly sober is a no go. 

It’s a networking thing, really. The projects are done—they’ve already been critiqued. It’s more of a _hey, look at all this great work we did_ type of deal. Relaxed and happy and celebratory—their final hurrah in Rome.

And they all look fucking good—straight pants and button-ups with neatly combed (well, in Jonas’s case, _neatly tamed_ and in Mahdi’s case, freshly buzzed) hair. They all have matching shoes, too, because only an hour ago they realized theirs were beat to hell from all the walking. This resolved with an impromptu shopping spree, and this last minute wardrobe malfunction also lead to their matching bowties—bought as a side note on the side of the road. You could _not_ convince Isak that if you looked close enough at Jonas’s, the pattern was actually made of many tiny, purple dicks.

“Fuck off,” Jonas waves, pulling his off unsatisfied. “Switch with me.”

Isak does, because why the hell not. He’s in a particularly good mood—it’s probably from the wine.

He doesn’t tell Even about the reception. He’s not sure why, really, and he’s starting to regret it. He’s not embarrassed of his work and he’s not embarrassed of Even’s ability to hold an intelligent conversation with his professors—so what is it then?

Secretly, he’s afraid someone will ask who Even is. And Isak will have no choice but to introduce him as _my friend._ And that’s really just an insult at this point.

“Ready to go, boys?” Jonas is tightening his new bowtie—Isak’s former. It’s covered with dandelions.

Isak takes one last look around the apartment before he flicks the lights—the last one out the door. Everyone’s bags are packed, minus his, and it all feels strangely lonely looking at what is essentially their home—empty and clean and ready for the next tenants—like they haven’t even been there at all. He doesn’t blame the boys for wanting to leave as soon as they can—they’ve got families to see and Christmas’s to celebrate back home.

And while Isak wishes that were him, too, he’s got an awfully good reason to stay.

They arrive fashionably late, and Isak bypasses his project neatly displayed on one of the studio tables for the refreshments. It’s amassed a few spectators, but he recognizes none of them. He desperately needs another drink before he goes and talks to anyone, especially if he’s supposed to sound intelligent and poised and put together.

After lingering for as long as possible, pouring his wine at a snail's pace, he braves his project and tries his best to put on a face to talk about it.

“It’s clearly a mixture of the old and new, if you’re regarding Roman history,” he hears a voice say. His project still has a small crowd around it, and it looks like it’s beginning to form it’s own discussion; The glass of wine he’s holding is his only armor. He still can’t fully see everyone. He thinks his professor is there. With a few other adults he doesn’t recognize. His project is close to someone else’s too, sharing a table, so it’s hard to pinpoint who in the crowd is looking at what. But there’s a blonde mop towering over everyone else and a deep voice—authoritative and smart—“This part is obviously mimicking the renaissance style. Maybe Villa Farnesina or Villa Borghese. And this part is classical—like the Pantheon or Teatro Marcello.”

By now, Isak is 0% surprised to see Even there—intelligent and poised and put together for him.

He squeezes his way in to stand by his project. “You’re right,” he smiles at Even, who smiles back like he’s been waiting for him to arrive this whole time.

“Are you a student?” A small, elderly and squeaky lady asks. Like she’s dying to be whisked away to see what this tall genius could come up with on his own accord since his interpretation of Isak’s project is so obviously well thought out.

Even just keeps smiling. “I’m a student, but this isn’t my class.”

“So… this is your project?” She looks confused, turning to Isak to ask and then to the crowd like they might have the answers. “Then who are you—”

“This is Even,” Isak starts. The moment he’s been waiting for. He’s had the answer locked and loaded, “my—” but he can’t seem to gasp it out.

It’s probably only a few seconds, but the silence lingers in the air—his mouth still open around the words he hasn’t said yet. People are starting to glance at Even, now, as if he might have the answer.

“I’m his date,” Even smiles, charming as ever and shaking hands with everyone even though he doesn’t have to.

Isak lets out a relieved sigh when the general response is just a few polite nods and some warm smiles, pretty much just glazing over it all together and moving on to more questions about the project. He answers them in a daze. 

_Date_ surely is a step up from friend, but there’s a sour twinge to it as well, like his whole mouth was just slicked with a lemon. And it’s not like they aren’t friends—they’re _very_ good friends, but to boil down everything this is to _just friends_ is offensive, actually.

The crowd starts to dissipate. Not fast enough, though, because Isak is bouncing on his toes and eyeballing Even with pursed lips, trapping the question behind them. “How did you—”

“Magnus,” Even cuts him off. He doesn’t look the least bit mad, so at least that’s a relief. Isak’s working through an apology in his head when Even cuts him off again— “Maybe I should be his date, instead?”

Isak lets out an actual snort. It’s a joke, obviously. Isak knows so because Even can’t keep a serious face for shit.

“I like your bowtie,” Even points out. “The dicks are a nice touch.”

“I have impeccable taste,” Isak defends with one eyebrow raised sarcastically. His face turns quickly, though, and Even can see the apology written all over it. “Look—”

“Please don’t worry about it,” Even cuts him off. “You want me to be here, I know you do. And I want to be here, too. With you.”

“Can’t you just let me apologize?” Isak pleads with a little sass. “I just didn’t—”

“Know what to say?”

 _Yeah—in a lot of ways._ “I just thought you might be bored, is all.”

“Hmm,” Even ponders with a cheeky smile, jabbing his tongue in his cheek like he’s thinking. “Free food and drinks, cool art, and you,” he lists. “Sounds like a good time to me.”

The smile that creeps up onto Isak’s face turns into a quiet giggle, and he pulls Even in closer by his hands and looks down nervously before looking up. “Well, you’re right,” Isak starts. “I'm glad you’re here.” He tips his head up slightly to ask for a kiss, and Even gives him one. And it’s quick—but it doesn’t contain the urgency a parting peck usually does. It’s quick because it has to be, but it lingers for that hesitating moment, where if it continued for just one more second, Isak might loose control. Even’s eyes are sparkling when he pulls away, and he bumps his nose against Isak’s before turning to look at the room.

Like Isak knew it would, the discussions about projects have stopped for the most part and everyone is mingling and eating and drinking and discussing anything but school and school work.

“We should go,” Isak suggests.

“Should we?” Even looks surprised. Hesitant, even. Like he wants to stay. “It’s your reception.”

True. But he’s accepted the fact he’s on borrowed time. “Trust me. I’d rather go.”

“Where would you like to go?” Even asks, not so subtly pulling Isak in the direction of Via del Corso when they step out of his studio.

He thinks for a minute. “I don’t care,” he finally admits. “I just don’t feel like being alone tonight.” There’s some heartbreak in there, and whether or not Even can sense it is beyond him, because his smile is kind and warm and his hand finds a place in Isak’s.

“Of course,” Even hums. “Let’s go get your bags.”

“My bags?”

“Yes?” Even smiles with a cocked eyebrow, pulling Isak in a little closer and turning on a heel to direct them in the direction of Trastevere instead. “Aren’t you staying with me?”

“I mean, yeah,” Isak starts. His head is swimming with how unprepared he is. “When I have to be out of my apartment in a week?”

“School’s done,” Even waves. “You’re friends are leaving tomorrow morning. You think I’m going to make you stay in your apartment all alone by yourself? It’s not like I’ve been waiting all week for you to come over or anything,” he smiles.

“Okay,” Isak agrees with a weak smile, stepping in time next to Even on their way to Isak’s.

When they get up to the sixth floor, he apologizes for not having anything packed yet—but he’s a pretty minimalist guy, so it doesn’t take long to stuff everything in his suitcase. He’s going to be living out of it for the next week, anyway, so he doesn’t care if his clothes aren’t folded or if everything isn’t neat and organized. Since everyone else’s things are already packed, it’s much easier to find his belongings. He folds his bedding, leaves his key on the kitchen table, and scrawls a note to the guys. He’ll send them a message, too, when he gets to Even’s, but he just wants to be extra careful.

He would feel bad about leaving with nothing more than a brash note that says something along the lines of _see ya guys later, have an awesome Christmas, sorry for darting unexpectedly,_ but they’ve been in such close contact over the past five months he’s sure they won’t hang out again until the next semester starts. Everyone deserves a much needed break and some even more needed alone time. They’ll understand. If anything, it’ll probably clear their conscious a little from leaving Isak all alone in the apartment.

“Ready?” Even asks.

“Ready.”

 

———

 

Rome during the day is nice. Now that he’s not tied to school, Even and him can explore during the actual noon hours—their meetings no longer reserved only for the early morning and the late evening. (Those are still Isak’s favorite times, though. Rome is still the most magical then.)

The spend most of their time being lazy—finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants they spend hours at drinking beers and eating everything Even makes him try. They just sit a lot, too—on stone benches in piazzas and on the patios of bars where they drink caffè correcto. They try to make it a mission to get lost, sometimes—hopping on a bus to who knows where and not getting off until they don’t recognize their surroundings. Whenever they feel somewhat alone, they steal kisses and hold hands and talk about nothing important.

It’s finally cold now, too. Like actually cold. Isak needs his winter coat during the nighttime.

And Christmas is nice. Even’s host parents have been nothing but generous and they don’t ask any questions, which is great. It might have to do with the fact that the only language Isak and them share is English, and neither of their’s is especially great, so they keep it minimal and talk in Italian to each other while Isak and Even speak Norwegian amongst themselves. 

But Isak’s favorite part of the whole week has been falling asleep. Which is weird, right? Because he should be soaking up every moment with Even he can (awake, mind you) while he’s got it. But instead, it’s falling asleep right next to Even. He’s doing particularly well at living in the moment, along with holding in all the words he wants to say to Even. How he wants to beg for him not to leave after graduation. How he wants something tangible to hold on to when he’s gone—something actually real, and not just a memory. How he wants a promise. A promise that they’ll see each other again when all is said and done.

But no one says anything.

 

 

Isak does what he does best over their final days together—represses everything. 

It’s actually his last night here—his last night pressed together in bed with him. His flight is tomorrow morning. It’s much easier than thinking about the future, even if it’s the future he so desperately wants. If the universe is here to curse him with nothing but a memory, he might as well make it the best memory he can—which means it’s filled with Even’s laugh and lips and not much else. He’s doing what he’s been doing the whole semester: keeping his thoughts to a minimum and enjoying Even’s presence. Only this time, he fully can. He can slink his fingers through Even’s in Piazza Navona without wondering what it means. He can linger his look all around him without a second thought Even might get the wrong idea. And he can press their lips together as they disappear from the busy street of Via del Corso and up into Even’s host home—which is what they’re currently doing now.

They’ve barely made it up one flight of stairs before Even is cornering him on the landing and pushing him up against the wall.

Because Isak is finally giving in.

And it’s not for lack of trying, either. Isak’s shut Even down full-stop when things start to get a little too heated—because, you know. Fear. Fear that everything will stop right here.

But if he’s accepted that he’s only here to make a memory, he might as well indulge. Even if that means the pain will be deeper in the end.

But he’s not thinking of that right now. He’s letting his mind go blank. Letting the universe paint little purple and red pictures on the back of his eyelids like he’s done so many times before when he shuts his eyes due to memory overload. He’s neither living in the past or thinking about the future—instead, he’s letting every nerve ending explode with sensation, trying to capture every millisecond of time between breaths and lips and hands and sounds. If this moment were a painting, it would be full of reds and browns and blacks—maybe a few greens. It’s dark and full of passion and every brush stroke has purpose. And like a painting, it would be captured in infinity.

Even mumbles _I want you_ into Isak’s mouth and he melts right there against the wall—smiling into their kiss and thanking god Even can’t see it’s laced with sadness.

It goes too fast for Isak’s liking, even though everything feels painfully slow. They make out in Even’s bed for what feels like hours—maybe it is, but Isak wishes it were hours more. Their clothes come off soon after, and their kisses turn lazy and breathy while they tangle up naked and dizzy from lack of blood flow to their brains. He wishes they could do that for hours, too, but he’s desperate to be touched—mentally kicking himself for denying himself this pleasure now that it just seems like a lost cause—something that they could have been doing for days—something else he could have held on to.

“Are you sure?” Even’s asking, but Isak wishes they were still kissing, chasing his lips with his own while Even smirks at him—dodging, and waiting for him to answer.

“Am I sure?” Isak mocks with an eye roll and gestures down to their tangled limbs, his own body throbbing. He wonders how he’s able to think at all, to be honest. “Yes,” he repeats, much more serious. “I’m sure. I’m more than sure.”

It’s a little painful. Mostly because it’s been awhile, but Even kisses him through it until nothing fogs his head but every nerve on his body singing praise—all to Even. And Even must just be beside himself with joy, because once Isak starts actually singing that praise with little moans and breaths and even Even’s name a few times, Even smiles and it’s almost enough to send Isak over the edge right then and there.

But it’s also a little painful because it feels like goodbye.

There are tears tangling in the back of his throat. They’re not to his eyes yet, but all it would take is a swallow to shove them up. And that’s when he realizes this _is_ a goodbye. It’s also when he realizes that they’re not just fooling around—

“I love you.”

—no. They’re doing something much more than that.

The words are like smoke, unable to be grasped and shoved back into Isak’s mouth before he realizes he’s actually said them—breathy and soft and in the heat of the moment.

He doesn’t know what would be worse—Even stopping or Even continuing; Even saying it back or Even saying nothing at all.

He kind of does a mixture of all of those things—slowing down until he’s just barely moving inside Isak. Taking a long pause. Even’s face doesn’t look shocked or frozen or scared. It looks touched. “Hey,” he whispers, leaning down to pepper Isak’s face with slow kisses. On his jaw. On his nose. On his eyelids. On his lips, each one saying a tiny _I love you, too._

So maybe that’s why Isak’s not as surprised when Even murmurs it in his ear, eyes drifting back up to meet his.

“I love you, too.”

Isak doesn’t last much longer after that—and then they’re curled up under the duvet and whispering it over and over again. It still feels like a goodbye.

 

 

Isak can hear the city start to come to life below them—shops opening and people walking and buses whizzing by. It’s barely the morning now, and the light is creeping in slowly. He doesn’t really sleep at all that night. Instead, he lies awake to study Even—his breathing. His face. His little eye flutters when he falls deeper into a dream. Part of it is he actually can’t fall asleep, but the other part of it is because he doesn’t want these last few hours with Even to blink by. He’d rather torture himself—consumed by thoughts in the dark rather than peacefully resting against someone he knows he’s going to be in love with forever.

“Come home.”

Isak’s not even sure Even is awake when he says it.

But he is—eyes fluttering and fingers lazily starting to draw circles on Isak’s bare shoulder when he hears the words.

“Come home,” Isak repeats after the silence. His eyes are still shut, too afraid to open them and look at Even’s expression. “Come back to Oslo and be with me.”

Even inhales for a very long time. He exhales for even longer. “I want you to know how torn I am.”

Nothing else really needs to be said—Isak’s heart is already broken. Even’s mind is already made up. He’s about to peel himself off of Even—probably the most painful parting he’ll ever experience, and fly back home. He wonders now if he even wants Even to follow him to the airport—he doesn’t want to risk crying, and he wants this last memory to be right here: alone. Not surrounded by bustling, late strangers trying to catch their flight. Not in an overly lit, high-ceiling cement box. No—this right here is good.

“Did you know a lot of the sculpture had to be restored?” Isak asks—eyes still closed as he bites back the clenching in his throat. Like last night, he knows tears aren’t far behind it.

Even jostles his shoulder very lightly, and if Isak could guess correctly, his eyebrows are raised. “Hmm?”

“The Pieta,” Isak chokes. His eyes are open now. Everything looks a little blurry, so he can’t really tell if Even’s eyes start to get a little blurry, too. He definitely catches the reference, though, because whether or not he’s on the verge of tears, there a sad, soft fondness to his face.

“You know,” Isak settles into Even’s collarbone. He’s making peace, now. Turning back to last night and doing what old Isak would do—relish in the moment. “For as much as you say you want to work on films, I’ve never heard you once talk about them.”

Even goes a little still. Isak doesn’t know why, but he feels like he’s winning. Winning what—he has no idea.

“You know what I do hear you talk a lot about, though?” If there’s a tear rolling down his cheek, it’s from a happy memory. There’s a smile on his face—he knows Even better than he thinks. “Art. And history.”

It’s true. Isak’s probably learned more from Even than he has from any professor. And all of it was fun and interesting. (He might be biased, though).

“You said you came here because you fell in love.” He’s stuttering a bit—reveling in the words he’s about to say. It’s funny, because he hasn’t thought about them until now, which is very unlike Isak. He rarely ever says the first thing that comes to mind. This just makes sense, though. Like maybe all the clues the universe left are begging him to be smart enough to put them together, good and bad—into one, big story that’s going to come full-circle. “You said after your first year in college you came here and you fell in love—with art. With history. With Rome. You chased it.”

Even is listening very carefully—like he’s learning something.

“So,” Isak breaths, “maybe that’s why you leave. Because you fell in love.”

He lifts his head to look at Even, who, to Isak’s surprise, has a slightly gaped mouth and wide eyes—he’s almost trembling a bit. And Isak thinks he’s struck a nerve. If there’s a thought inside there, Isak doesn’t know what it is. Unlike Even, who can seem to pinpoint every thought Isak’s ever had or is having or is going to have, his own mind is like a brick wall to Isak—impenetrable. Opaque. Unpredictable.

“So. Will you chase it this time, too?”

His heart is going haywire, and you probably wouldn’t know it by just looking at him—he’s still lazily draped over Even in bed, the warm light growing brighter on his soft features. But there’s no way Even can’t feel it against his own skin—fast and erratic and almost a little scary.

Even answers with a kiss. It’s slow and soft-lipped and Isak’s whole face is cupped in his hands. He has absolutely no idea what it means, but it feels nice, so he kisses Even back and tries not to think of anything besides this moment right here. (The thought that this might be their last kiss is buried somewhere deep inside him, but he’s not going to let it surface. Not yet.)

Isak doesn’t let them break apart. Whenever Even pulls back, Isak surges forward again, locking his hand on the back of his neck. He’s not ready to let go or to say goodbye, and he’s not braced enough for whatever words might tumble from Even’s lips when they do. For the first time, he’s not ready to look up into Even’s eyes.

“I don’t think I have a choice anymore.”

Like most things Even says, Isak has no idea what this means, but Even is kissing him again so there’s not really much to complain about at the moment.

“There is only one choice.”

Isak’s wondering if maybe Even’s heart and brain have connected themselves, too, just like Isak’s—rending him, in fact, only one choice.

“I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”

He’s saying it right over Isak’s mouth—their kiss soft and open and Isak’s holding on for dear life—the rollercoaster is at the highest peak, that moment where it pauses a bit to scare you before the drop.

“I will follow you until the end of time.”

And it’s dropping. 

“Because you’re my best friend.”

His smile is so wide he can’t really kiss anymore—he’s just letting Even place small pecks at the corner of his mouth and his jaw and anywhere he wants to—they’re sloppy and half-whispered and some of them land on his teeth.

“And my love.”

The roller coaster is over—coming to a nice stop back at the landing. It’s someone else’s turn to get on.

 

———

 

“Do you have everything? Wallet? Phone? Passport?”

For the millionth time, yes, he has his goddamn passport. It’s right here in his pocket—

At least he thought so. Shit.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” Isak sighs when he realizes Even has it—stolen from the pocket he’s frantically fishing in. He snatches it back with a pout. “I shouldn’t have let you come to the airport with me.” 

That’s a lie. They’ve been standing at security, the last stop before their hands have to part and Isak has to leave Even standing beyond the gate for the better part of half an hour. Isak’s wondering who will make the first move—if he’ll have to force himself through the line with only minutes to spare before he has to board the plane, or if Even will nudge him along, knowing the same. Isak wouldn’t be surprised, though, if Even just kept him here if he was unwilling to move. Missing flight be damned—he doesn’t have to go back home and start a new semester in a few days, right?

It’s been a whirlwind, and that’s the truth. Isak’s not sure whether the universe is even real anymore. The only thing he knows is that he’s standing here with Even, and not for the last time—never for the last time.

“Text me when you land?” Even asks.

 _Really? Really, Even?_ It’s either a lapse in memory or a smooth antic. Either way, it works.

Isak rolls his eyes and shoves his phone into Even’s hands, fishing in Even’s pocket for his.

It’s the first time he’s touched it, really, or even seen it for that matter. The only time Isak recalls Even being on it is during their first encounter when it disrupted their conversation and pulled Even away. It’s a gold iPhone—no case and no passcode. The lock screen is Caravaggio’s _Boy With A Basket of Fruit,_ and Isak thinks Even’s either wanted to kiss a boy in front of that painting for his whole life or it’s been changed recently to consummate the memory. Either way, it makes him smile. When he slides it open, Even’s apps are organized in folders (like a nerd) and his phone app is sitting on the third row in the middle, not down in the favorites bar. He taps it and enters his name and number, suddenly less anxious to land back in Norway where he has data.

They exchange phones back with little smiles.

“I just have to know, now that we have each other’s numbers. Is the magic dead?” Even asks. There’s a playful smirk to go along with it.

Isak sighs loudly for the dramatics, swiping his phone open to read Even’s name. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I now find you disgusting?”

Even laughs loudly, crinkly eyes and all. “It was fun while it lasted.”

“Really?” Isak asks, shoving his screen back in Even’s face. “You have to be so dramatic all the time. I don’t even know what this says.” Where Even’s name _should_ be (with a yellow heart, damn it, because Isak sure put one next to his name) is something in Italian. _L’uomo dei miei sogni._

“Maybe you should learn Italian,” Even jokes. 

It’s really not that funny, not when Isak’s trying to be upset but he can’t stop smiling. He gapes his mouth in offense. “You really aren’t going to tell me?”

Even’s pulling him in by the waist, hands like fire around Isak’s sides. “I’m really not.”

This is the last kiss, now. Isak can feel it eating away at them—a little reserved since they’re out in public, and only a few seconds long. But it’s not the last of the last, and that’s the only thing keeping Isak hanging on.

“I will see you in five months,” Even whispers. “Don’t forget about me.”

Literally how? How could Isak forget about Even? He can’t reiterate enough what it’s like to have him, to finally have all of him, and to now be able to call him his. 

Love stories don’t usually go like this. They usually end tragically—with broken promises and _it’s not you, it’s me’s_ and acknowledgments that maybe this was the right place, just not the right time, and vice versa. But for once, everything the universe throws his way makes sense. Without all the (necessary, Isak realizes) little signs, even the painful ones, he wouldn’t be standing right here, right now, with a promise from Even.

And maybe that’s really all the universe is. Isak gives it too much power—too much power to make decisions for him and decide his feelings without asking him first. But really it’s just little forces—suggesting you go one way or another. You can listen, or you can ignore, but either way, you’ll end up right where you are. There’s no going back.

“I could never.”


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter is honestly just a bunch of fluffy nonsense asjkirhubfnvfjo

**DECEMBER**

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  The man of my dreams?  
>  Really?  
>  Also I died in a terrible plane crash.
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  And you call me dramatic  
>  So you googled it then?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Yes!  
>  Because you wouldn’t tell me what it means!
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do you remember what it’s from?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  ?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Lol  
>  I didn’t expect you to  
>  Seeing as you could barely even repeat what I said
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You mean when I asked you to say something in Italian?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Yes  
>  Wow you actually remember?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  That’s what you said to me?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I had a big fat crush on you  
>  Still do
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I feel like I wasted so much time
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  That’s the hindsight talking  
>  I think we ended up right where we needed to be  
>    
> 

**JANUARY**

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Happy new year  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  What was the first thing you ate when you got home?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’ve been craving some kjøttkaker  
>  For like, years  
>  And I need you to tell me when you got back  
>  Someone made a big plate of it for you  
>  Because I need to live vicariously through you
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Why?  
>  Are you tired of pizza and pasta?  
> 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You would think not  
>  But
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Even I don’t want to disappoint you  
>  But the first thing I did when I got home was order a pizza  
>  And let me tell you  
>  It was terrible
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You can’t just lie to me?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Fine Even  
>  When I got home Eskild had a big pan of kjøttkaker simmering on the stove  
>  And he even made some kålstuing to go on the side  
>  And mashed potatoes  
>  With cream sauce
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Hnnnnggggggg  
>  I’m drooling  
>  Is it May yet
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Not even close  
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Did I leave my grey hoodie there?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Um  
>  You didn’t leave it  
>  I stole it
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ughhhhhh  
>  It’s really hard to be mad at you
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Oh yeah?  
>    
>  Why’s that?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  u cute
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’m actually wearing it right now  
>  But you’ll get it back!  
>  Or maybe you won’t  
>  It’s really comfy and it smells like you
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You couldn’t have swapped me something?  
>  Jeeze
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Isak have you even done laundry since you’ve been home
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  …
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Have you even unpacked your suitcase???
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  …
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Oh my god you are HOPELESS
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Hey now  
>  I’m not ready to unpack all the memories okay
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Whatever you need to tell yourself  
>  But maybe if you did you’d notice I DID swap you something
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
>  It’s the sweater you wore on our date   
>  God I’m a sap  
>  I seriously miss you
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  I accidentally ordered two cappuccini this morning  
>  Out of habit  
>  One for you  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Did you at least drink it for me?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Of course  
>  Barista looked at me funny though  
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Hey guess what  
>  You still owe me seven euros
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Oh do I?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Remember?  
>  From “Halloween”
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  But you agreed I didn’t have to pay you back in cash
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  That’s true  
>  What are you going to pay me back in then?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’ve got a few ideas
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ok  
>  What are they?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do you have a vendetta against surprises or something?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ugh  
>  No  
>  You’re just so  
>  ~*mysterious*~  
>  All the time
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What the fuck was that  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What!  
>  I needed to convey my tone of voice
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  Emojis  
>  Ever heard of them?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Shut up
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
> 

**FEBRUARY**

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Hey you I’ve got a question
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Fire away
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Who was calling you?  
>  In St. Peter’s
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Hahaha ughhhhhh  
>  You’re going to hate this
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  ???
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  It was someone who had the wrong number
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You’re fucking with me  
>  Right?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’m really not  
>  But the person they were looking for’s name was Steven  
>  And it sounded kind of like Even when they said it?  
>  So it was like a solid minute of me saying ‘yes this is Even’  
>  And them being like ‘no STEVEN’  
>  And me going ‘yES EVEN’  
>  And then they just finally hung up
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I hate you
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  No you don’t
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ugh why are you always right
> 
> **EVEN:**  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Would you rather be uncomfortably hot or uncomfortably cold
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Hot  
>  Definitely
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  See  
>  I used to think the opposite  
>  But right now I’m missing that hot hot Italian air  
>  I’m under about 5 blankets  
>  Tell me the temperature
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  It’s sitting at a comfortable 8º C right now
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Unngggg  
>  That was a sext btw
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  And later there’s a high of 12º C
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Stop it I’m going to come  
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Ok  
>  I’m just going to say it  
>  One night with you wasn’t enough
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about  
>  Then no  
>  It wasn’t
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What do you think I’m talking about?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
> 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You are just so tasteful sometimes it kills me
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Shut up  
>    
>  Sorry I wasted so much time  
>  And pushed you away when it came to that  
>  This sounds dumb but  
>  I was scared  
>  I used to think I was scared because I didn’t want to loose you afterwards  
>  But now I realize it’s because I was scared of how I felt  
>  And what that meant  
>  To give myself away like that when I knew it was going to make the heartbreak worse
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Please never apologize for that  
>  I’m sorry I broke your heart
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s okay  
>  But only because you put it back together again  
> 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  Do you trust me with it?  
>  Your heart?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I think I do
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  That’s better than I was expecting  
>  It’s in good hands  
>  I promise
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You promise? 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I promise  
> 

**MARCH**

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Hello when did you fall in love with me
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Hello to you too   
>  Um  
>  Let’s be real I had a crush on you the moment I saw you  
>  But fell in love?  
>  Probably in Piazza Navona  
>  When you told me about Bernini and Borromini and their dumb architecture rivalry
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Dumb?!  
>  It was the rivalry to end all rivalries  
>  #TeamBernini  
>  He can get it honestly  
>  Look at that mustache
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You’re insatiable  
>  I already knew the story, btw  
>  I just wanted to hear you tell it
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I would honestly be offended if you didn’t know it  
>  Can you really call yourself an architect if you don’t?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Haha  
>  What about you?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What about me what?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Wow  
>  When did you fall in love with me  
>  Or are you over me and on to Bernini now
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  He’s dead
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Obviously
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  But I mean if he were alive, you might have some competition
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ouch
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  But really  
>  When I first took you to Colle del Giancolo  
>  I fell in love with the look on your face
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  My heart  
>  It hurtsssss  
>  But in a good way
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  We’re about halfway there, love  
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  I had a dream about you last night
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I dream about you every night
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  This isn’t a competition  
>  Asshole  
>  I had  A DREAM  about you last night
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  Go on
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I’m not very good at this  
>  Can’t you just use your imagination?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What!  
>  You’re the one who brought it up!  
>  Not even a hint?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Oh my god it’s so weeeeirdddd though
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do you even know who I am?  
>  I like weird  
>  I like it a lot  
>  If you had a normal sex dream about me I’d be offended honestly  
>  Pleeeaaaseeeee
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Fine  
>  We were at the Villa Borghese museum  
>  And we were a sculpture?  
>  Or, pretending to be a sculpture?  
>  So every time someone saw us, we had to stop and be really still  
>  And really quiet  
>  That was hard  
>  And visitors would just stop and admire us  
>  And then when the room was empty again you fucked me out of my mind  
>  Happy?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  And what do you think this sculpture would be called? Who sculpted it?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Oh my god you are such a NERD
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  For real though I have a boner  
>  I can’t use two hands at once like this  
>  You’re going to have to call me
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Two hands?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  “Can’t you just use your imagination?”
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I don’t think I need to
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Call me  
>  I want to hear your voice when I finish  
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Do you believe in fate?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Hmmmm  
>  Not really, no  
>  I think you pretty much get to choose how your life pans out  
>  Like if it were a movie, you get to be the director
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What about signs then?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Signs?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Yeah  
>  Because there are things you can’t control, you know
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I need an example
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I guess I’ll just be blunt  
>  When I started to like you, I thought it was going to be a problem. I didn’t want to fall for you, because first of all there was no guarantee you weren’t straight and also, you know… leaving.  
>  So I talked to Eskild about it  
>  And he told me the best way to get over it was to cut all contact with you  
>  But I didn’t listen  
>  And then later  
>  Jonas gave me the exact same piece of advice  
>  So, you know  
>  Signs  
>  I couldn’t control what they said to me  
>  And I almost listened, that second time around  
>  With Jonas
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’m glad you didn’t  
>  But don’t you see what this is?  
>  You WERE the director  
>  The decision maker  
>  You CHOSE not to listen  
>  You chose to go your own way  
>  To say fuck you to the universe  
>  To make life your own movie
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What do you think it means then?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I think it’s just a coincidence  
>  A fairly common piece of advice
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  So you don’t think it’s fate that we ended up together?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  No  
>  I just think that in every universe we end up together no matter what
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  That’s like  
>  The definition of fate
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Fine  
>  I believe in fate  
>  But only when it comes to you  
>    
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  What’s the plan when you come back to Oslo?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Look for a good job  
>  Find a shitty job in-between looking for said good job  
>  Cuddle you to death
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
>  For real though
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  That’s it!  
>  I need money and I need Isak
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What’s a “good job”
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Lol  
>  You tell me  
>  Honestly idk  
>  I’d like to work on a set?  
>  Or maybe be a curator?  
>  Or a history teacher?  
>  Or a chef?  
>  Who knows!  
>  I’ll have three degrees, Isak  
>  I feel like I can do anything
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Where are you going to live?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Probably with mamma and pappa for a bit  
>  Until I find one of those tiny flats all struggling artists seem to live in
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  How often am I allowed to kidnap you?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Four times a week?  
>  And I’ll kidnap you the other three  
>  Deal?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Deal  
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Today is hard  
>  I miss you a lot
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Are you ok?  
>  I miss you too
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I will be  
>  Just  
>  What are you doing right now?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Watching a movie with Eskild
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Can you call me?  
>  I just need to hear your voice
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Of course  
>    
> 

**APRIL**

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  HI  
>  GOOD MORNING  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Um  
>  I think you’ve got caps lock on there
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  No I’m just excited
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Oh yeah?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Yeah
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Is this another one of those things you’re just not going to tell me about
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Oh hush  
>  Today marks exactly one month until I’m coming home  
>  Bought my flight this morning  
>  Rome  Oslo
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You know when you see someone just grinning at their phone out in public  
>  And you secretly hate them for being so in love  
>  That’s me right now
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I miss that smile
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Well now you officially only have to miss it for one more month  
>    
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  heiiiiheiheihei
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Are you drunk
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Hwow did u knooo
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Oh just a guess  
>  Who are you with?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Jonas  
>  Nd Mgnus Mahdo
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Mahdo
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Yies dnt yuou remember him?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Yes I remember Mahdo
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  goooooood  
>  I love youuuuu
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I love you too   
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Good morning  
>  How are you feeling?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Like I just got hit by a train  
>  Like death  
> 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do me a favor and drink a really big glass of water
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You’re talking too loud
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Isak we’re texting
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Everything is too loud  
>  The screen is too loud
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You mean too bright?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s too everything
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I feel so helpless 2,500km away  
>  If I were there I’d help you
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  That would be so much better  
>  All I have is Eskild  
>  And he’s being so MEAN
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  ?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  He’s talking too loud
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Isak you thought I was being too loud
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You are
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You’re insufferable
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I’m SICK
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You’re hungover
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Same thing
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’m just going to agree with you and let it slide  
>  But for real  
>  I’m sorry you feel like death  
>  If I were there I’d get you some water and make you some toast and hold your hair back while you threw up
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Who says I’m going to throw up?  
>  Shit  
>  I might have spoken too soon  
>  This is all your fault
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Put my sweater on and lay in bed and I’ll call you  
>  It’s the closest we can get to cuddling
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
> 

**MAY**

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Can I get your address?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  My address?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Yeah  
>  I want to send you a postcard
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  A postcard
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Yes!  
>  Why is that so hard to believe?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I guess when I think about it  
>  It is you  
>  So maybe it’s not  
>  But I’m on to you Bech Næsheim  
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  The official countdown has begun  
>  10 more days
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Did you know that it has officially been the same amount of time from when I first got to Rome until when we first kissed, to when I left Rome until now?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  That’s depressing
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Let’s reenact  
>  It can be like our first kiss all over again
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I wouldn’t be surprised if it felt that way  
>  I have butterflies just thinking about it  
>  I’m actually getting a little nervous
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Even Bech Næsheim? Nervous?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  A little!
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Were you nervous back then?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You have no idea
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You didn’t seem nervous
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You just kept looking at the painting  
>  And I just kept waiting for you to look at me  
>  And then you kissed me  
>  I was taken aback, really  
>  I never would have guessed you’d make the first move
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Actually  
>  And don’t make fun of me  
>  I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Why though?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I’m not sure really  
>  I had convinced myself that it was going to happen  
>  And I thought my crush on you was pretty obvious  
>  So I figured if you wanted to, you would
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  But you did make the first move
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I did  
>  I couldn’t help myself  
>  And what can I say? Caravaggio turns me on  
>  Oh god I sound like you
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Talk art to me, baby  
> 

>   
>  **ISAK:**  
>  Good morning  
>  Tomorrow  
>  Tomorrow  
>  Tomorrow  
>  Tomorrow  
>  I finally get to see you
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You might have to come over and just meet my family because I’m not sure if I will be able to get away from them, honestly
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Do they know about me?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do they know about you  
>  Lol  
>  Of course they know about you
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>    
>  What time does your flight land?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  15:15  
>  If you don’t mind I think I’m just going to have mamma pick me up and take me home?  
>  And I’ll text you when I’m settled and you can come over then?  
>  Is that okay?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Okay  
> 

>   
>  **EVEN:**  
>  Are you awake?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Always
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I don’t want to wake your roommate up by knocking on the door
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  ???  
>  Are you here???  
>  Isn’t your flight tomorrow???
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I may have lied  
>  But only to surprise you  
>  Now open your door, please
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You’re seriously here?  
>  Oh my god
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Isak just come open the door and kiss me  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments, kudos, messages, and fic recs on tumblr. I like to tell myself I write for myself because it’s a passion, but let me tell you, writing really is an endurance sport. Some of you have honestly poured your hearts out in the comment section and I just??? _That’s_ the reason I keep writing. Thank you ❤️
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)!


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